Page 92 of The Lazarov Bratva

But I don’t. Because he’s wrong about me.

“In.” He opens the passenger side door and indicates for me to get inside.

I do, with minimal complaint. Kristof slams the door closed, and I settle into the hard leather seats, then track his shadow as he walks around the car, pausing slightly to speak briefly to the driver. It isn’t anyone I recognize. Maybe he called an Uber.

Kristof then slides into the back seat next to me and the car thrums into life. We leave behind the second home I’ve ever known in a single gear change.

As the silence drags out between us, my anger grows. I want an apology. I expect one. I’ve done a lot for Kristof when it comes to following his rules and obeying him because I’ve benefitted too. I’ve enjoyed the quiet life, being wanted and loved, and the sex has been insane. But this? His accusations that I’m just waiting to leave him?

That hurts.

He gets so caught up in his own world that he seems to forget I have feelings.

Kristof’s attention is fixed on his phone as we drive, but eventually, he reaches out to rest a hand on my thigh. I immediately shove his touch away and huddle up to the door, staring pointedly out the window at the passing city. Sometime later, he tries to take my hand, but I reject that too.

I’m not letting this slide.

He was an asshole, and I deserve an apology.

And… I’m scared. Instead of understanding and comforting me, he ran with his thoughts and ignored my feelings.

My rejection doesn’t rouse any reaction from him, at least not one I can sense, as I keep my attention on the passing world. Eventually, the city melts away to highways and high fences, then the large open tarmac of the runway.

My heart jumps into my throat.

We’re really leaving. It’s been real in my mind, but now it’s starkly obvious. There’s no turning back.

The car pulls to a stop, and Kristof steps out immediately. I push on the handle and open the door, stepping out as an act of defiance rather than waiting for him to open the door for me. As soon as my boot hits the tarmac, I’m swept up in a pair of arms and floral perfume fills my nose.

“Alena!” comes Nastja’s voice, and she hugs me close. “It is so nice you are coming with us.”

“Like she has a choice,” scoffs another faintly familiar voice. The hug parts and Ivan, Kristof’s brother, stands a few feet away surrounded by suitcases.

“Oh, shut up,” Nastja scolds. Nastja touches my cheek with one cool hand and smiles at me, her brow creasing. “How are you, my dear?”

“I’m alright,” I answer, and my voice croaks slightly after remaining silent for so long. “I’m…” I pause and glance at Kristof, who has his back to me. “I’ve never flown before.”

“Of course you haven’t.” Nastja nods understandingly. “Well, there’s nothing to it. Half the time, you don’t even realize you are in the air.”

“Unless you’re Nastja, because she spends half the time buried in a sick bag.” Ivan laughs.

Nastja turns on him immediately, swinging a hand that he ducks with a laugh. “Fuck you!” she snaps. “I’m trying to make her feel better.”

“Sure, sure,” Ivan scoffs. “It’s like being on a bus.”

“I’ve never been on a bus, either,” I point out. It’s difficult to remain sullen when the two of them are joking around, and a smile pulls at my lips.

“So sheltered,” Ivan tuts. “Well, have you ever been inside a giant tin can that roars so loudly you can’t hear yourself think and occasionally makes your ears pop?”

“No.”

“Oh, well, first time for everything.”

“You’re an asshole.” Nastja snorts, then she loops one arm through mine. “You will be fine. I promise.”

A man dressed in a dark blue suit with gold piping along the hat and down his jacket hurries down the steps of the gigantic jet in front of us and begins collecting the bags.

“Come on,” Kristof barks, finally pulling his attention away from his phone. “Get on the plane.”

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