Page 143 of The Lazarov Bratva

Scratch that—there are two single thoughts that remain true in my mind, and the second is Alena. I love her. She is mine.

The sight of her pale skin illuminated by the moonlight eases the crushing pain in my chest. I strip and slide into the bed next to her, gathering her tightly in my arms and cuddling her firmly against my chest. She’s the epitome of comfort, and while she doesn’t wake, she does nuzzle into me.

Everything about her soothes me, and I bury my face in her hair, closing my eyes as I breathe her in. She is my family.

She is all I have.

I don’t sleep. I can’t.

I’m wound too tightly.

I will do everything possible to keep Alena safe and build us a strong, happy life.

But for a moment, in the darkest of night, my existence hurts and I let it consume me.

8

ALENA

Something is off.

Morning breaks, and Kristof is out of bed with a lingering kiss and a promise that he won’t be long because he has something to take care of. It wouldn’t bother me under normal circumstances, but there’s a fleeting hollowness in his eyes that catches in my mind.

I tell myself it’s just my PTSD or paranoia from the attacks, but deep down, I know that’s not the case.

There’s something he isn’t telling me. How can I get him to open up to me?

Maybe it really is just the lingering trauma of what happened at the house, but Kristof has decades of experience under his belt, and this? This is something different.

The shower is as welcoming as ever. The patter of water against my skin drowns out all other thoughts for twenty minutes, and I lose myself in the calming repetitiveness of washing.

Within the hour, I’m dressed, and my hair is scooped up into a hair clip. Andrev waits for me by the door and flashes me a tight smile.

“Morning.”

“You look tired.” His constant vigil keeps him up late, but each time I tell him to rest, he brushes me off. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

“A little,” Andrev replies, falling into step beside me as we head down the hallway. “I’m fine. You don’t need to worry.”

“I wish people would stop telling me that. I know you’re not fine. No one is fine.” Rolling my eyes, I turn my attention to the guards stationed at the top of the stairs. Two more stand like statues at the bottom, and they line the hallways every few feet, all the way to the kitchen. The extra guards would be too much if I weren’t so aware of how quickly my father could bulldoze down the door.

He’s already killed everything in his path the first time. There’s little chance that he’ll pass up the opportunity to do it again.

The warm, tantalizing scents of Alyona’s fried bread and eggs fill the air the closer we get, and a subtle rumble twists through my stomach. Things have been so hectic that it’s the simplest of pleasures I cling to.

But when I step into the kitchen, it’s not Alyona by the stove cooking breakfast. It’s someone else entirely.

She’s younger, with plaited blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Age crinkles at the corner of her eyes, and the smile lines around her mouth deepen when she catches sight of me.

“Alena, right?” Her spatula drags through the egg mix in her pan. “I’m Valonia. I saw that you don’t like salt on your eggs, so I’ve made them as light as possible. Ducks eggs, too. They’re better for you when you’re dealing with stress.”

“Who?” I ask, struggling to process beyond her name.

Before she can answer, I spin to face Andrev. His face is calm, and not a single note of surprise graces his features. Almost as if he expected this. “Andrev, who is this?”

“Valonia is one of August’s chefs. She’s on loan to us for a while,” Andrev explains.

“What? Why? Where’s Alyona?”

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