Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
“Of course I’m living here, Eli. I vowed that I would.”
Semyon laces his fingers through mine and tugs me a little closer before he turns to me. “Is that what’s keeping you here, Anya?” He’s calm as always, but I know him well enough by now to know when he’s afraid. He gets this tiny, almost imperceptible twitch next to his lips, and he goes even stiller than usual, his body rigid. Assessing.
I nod slowly. “I would never back down on a vow,” I say, but I’m teasing him. I’m trying to come up with the right words to tell him how I really feel.
I’m safe with you.
Stefan is safe with you.
We have a future together because we were born for each other.
I love you.
But before I can speak my mind, Eli clears his throat. “It was meant to be,” he finally admits with a sigh. “Though you know she blames you for Mom’s death, don’t you?”
The air in the room goes still. Semyon turns to Eli. “Maybe it’s time you tell her everything.”
Eli takes another slow sip of his vodka before he finally nods. I’m not breathing. My breath feels constricted and tight. I’ve hated myself for wanting Semyon, for being so weak that no amount of logic could rid me of the ache. Of needing him to want me back.
“Anya, I let you believe Semyon was the enemy,” Eli says, his voice pained. I watch the blunt tip of his finger trace the edge of his shot glass. “It was easier that way. It seemed you were better off having a target, someone to blame for what happened to us.”
In the darkened room lit by moonlight, Eli looks like my mother. He has her cheekbones, the slant of her elegant neck. I swallow the lump in my throat. It only rises again.
Do I want to hear what he has to tell me? The weight of Semyon’s rough, warm hand settles on the back of my neck. I can breathe again.
“She begged him,” I whisper. “Begged him not to let you get involved.”
Eli shakes his head sadly. “It was too late at that point. Our family was in debt thanks to Dad’s gambling. He pissed away everything we had, and I tried to stop him. Turning to the Bratva seemed my only choice.”
Semyon’s fingers tighten. I lean my head on his shoulder.
“Semyon tried to talk me out of this daily. He knew who we were dealing with. He knew how easily things could go sideways.” Eli shakes his head. “It wasn’t Semyon’s fault, Anya. He tried to save her the day she died.”
I close my eyes. A hot, fat tear rolls down my cheek.
“Why didn’t you tell me the whole story earlier, Semyon?”
“You wouldn’t have believed me.”
He’s right. There’s no way I would have. Eli is right, too. It was easier to blame Semyon. I already felt like he’d abandoned me when my family began to unravel and his began to grow in strength and number.
“The day she died,” Eli continues, his voice cracking and his eyes glimmering, “Dad was drowning in debt, and I was trying to hold it all together, selling my soul to whoever would pay the most. She blamed Semyon. She begged him to rescue me, and then—her heart gave out. Semyon and I were there. Semyon called the paramedics—he called in everyone he knew—but it was too late.”
I was coming home from the bakery when I heard her pleading, her voice rising and falling between the others. By the time I reached the upstairs landing, Semyon shoved past me, his expression unreadable. Eli was holding her—she’d collapsed. I screamed for Semyon, but when he didn’t come, I knew he’d run. He was fleeing. And Eli… he lied, telling me what he thought I needed to hear.
My heart aches.
“I didn’t want you ruined like I was,” Eli says, his voice breaking. “I lied to keep you away from him.”
He’d seen us that day in the shed. He’d seen the way I stared at Semyon. He knew.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t save her,” Semyon says quietly, his voice raw, stripped of its usual steel and ice. “I promise, Anya, I tried.”
Semyon doesn’t look away or even flinch but lets me see him as he truly is—loyal and devoted, holding onto quiet regret he’s carried for years. Willing to be the scapegoat.
For years, I’ve imagined this differently—maybe I’d scream and rail against him, throwing things or even fists, demanding justice for the mother I lost. But now I feel… hollow. And past that well of sadness… a little hopeful.
Semyon’s voice is softer this time. Unraveling. “I used to think needing someone made you weak,” he admits. “That love was a liability, that it would make you concede control.” He huffs out a laugh. “I was right, in part.”
“About what?” I whisper. I need to know.