Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
“Hello again,” he says, his voice low, each word deliberate. There’s no warmth there, only a distant courtesy. “Welcome.”
I manage a nod. “Hello.”
For a moment, his gaze flickers past me, locking briefly with Rafail’s in what seems to be a silent exchange. I can’t quite read it, but the corner of Semyon’s mouth quirks, almost as if in approval, before he turns his attention back to me with that same unnervingly calculated stare.
He’s less angry than Rafail. Hell, they all are. Maybe they haven’t had to face what he has. Anger radiates off Rafail in waves—it's in the tone of his voice, the cut of his eyes, the familiar downturn of his lips. Even without my memories, I’m sure I’ve never known anyone as angry as him. And, yeah, there’s a part of me that can’t help but want to fix him. Not my job, I know, but… it’s only instinct, really.
Rafail pulls out a chair for me, his grip steady and commanding as he helps me sit. His voice is calm but carries an edge as he continues the introductions. “This is Rodion,” he says, gesturing to the man standing just behind him.
Rodion’s stance is deceptively relaxed, but there’s a tautness in his movements like he’s ready to strike at the slightest provocation. His scant beard shadows a face that holds a mix of mischief and menace, his sharp eyes flashing with a dangerous gleam. For an instant, a smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, but it vanishes as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a look that seems both appraising and faintly amused as if he’s already one step ahead of everyone in the room.
He gives me a single nod. “Hey,” he says, his voice low and casual, but there’s a note beneath it that’s almost predatory, and I don’t trust the way his gaze shifts away from me as though he’s afraid I’ll see who he really is—or Rafail will.
“Hey,” I reply, my voice softer than I intended, the intensity in his gaze unsettling.
I glance back at Rafail, catching a flicker of something sharp in Rodion’s eyes when he looks at his brother. Respect, perhaps, but tinged with something darker—a wary kind of fear or maybe an unspoken rivalry.
“You met Yana?” She nods and gives me a small smile. There’s a reserved pain behind her eyes, the kind that only comes from experience. I get the distinct feeling she keeps her life close to the vest and only trusts a select few. I want to be one who she trusts.
“And you know Zoya,” Rafail adds. The sweet girl, wearing jeans and a modest tee, her hair in a ponytail, smiles softly at me. You wouldn’t know who she was—or, more accurately, who her brothers were.
“How’s your pain level, Anissa?” Zoya’s voice is soft, full of concern—always the caretaker, always the one trying to mend what’s broken. Her wide, watchful eyes track my movements as if she’s afraid I’m going to fall apart.
I smile, trying to ignore the throbbing in my temples. “Better with the meds.” I glance down at the table, at the plate of slightly overdone eggs and dark-brown toast that’s barely edible spread with butter that’s still lumpy. “Did you… cook breakfast?” I’m trying not to be insulting, but it’s hard to imagine the feast of the other night was prepared by the same hands.
“Oh, um, no,” Zoya stammers, shifting nervously, her hands clasped together as if she’s trying to hide something. “It was Rodi’s turn today. I like when it’s my job, but we take turns. Rafail’s rules.”
“She’s being modest,” Rodion mutters from across the table, leaning in with a crooked smile. “We all prefer when it’s her turn.”
Rafail smacks Rodion’s arm. Rodion snorts and buries his face into a cup of coffee, but the smirk remains. He fears his older brother, but not so much that he doesn’t speak his mind or forget his sense of humor.
Semyon, the family observer, it seems, chuckles. “You can thank him for this.” He nods toward Rafail. “He decided learning how to cook was a life skill we all needed. Said something about not being reliant on others. And some of us are… well, better than others.”
“I can grill steak,” Rodion offers with a shrug. “That’s all I can cook, but it’s a good one.”
“I’d… eat steak for breakfast,” I say helpfully.
The others snicker, except Rafail, who blows out an impatient breath. It feels like a normal family for a brief moment—if not for the dark undercurrent that flows through the room. They hold secrets and fears they haven’t yet revealed to me. Rafail’s face is unreadable as he fills a plate and pushes it in front of me. He pours himself a cup of coffee, then turns to me. “Do you like coffee?” His voice is low and controlled as usual, his dark gaze flickering to me before he amends his question with an almost uncharacteristic stammer. “I mean… today. Sometimes you drink it, and sometimes you don’t.”