Page 91 of The Lazarov Bratva

Kristof was with me but wasn’t hearing what I was saying. It was as if the second I doubted him, he immediately became shrouded in a cloak and only heard what he expected, not what I was trying to say.

Not for the first time, I yearn for Katja by my side. Her comfort and her advice would soothe me in moments, and her company would do wonders for my growing need to vent.

Instead, I am alone, crying on the bathroom floor as all known stable foundation is ripped away from me. For the first time since I woke up here, I’m scared.

Leaving the country must mean something important has happened, right? Sure, Kristof has always traveled back to Russia for business, but something about how he acted tells me this isn’t just a regular work trip.

I remain on the bathroom floor for a few long minutes, sobbing heavily as my stomach twists. I finally stand and trudge back to the bedroom when I’m certain I won’t be sick again. The suitcase is on the floor, messily packed but still open. The clothes Kristof brought me are simple—jeans and a T-shirt. Regular clothes to blend in as if we’re just regular people.

Cautiously, I test the door handle, but it doesn’t budge. Definitely locked.

Maybe if I could just talk to him again?

I replay the argument in my head as I slowly dress. Each time I run it through, I say different things that stop Kristof from getting angry and assure him that I am here and on his side no matter what happens. Only in my fantasy does he accept that and kiss me before he leaves.

Reality is colder.

Dressed, I run a brush through my hair and scoop it into a ponytail, secure with a bobble. Then, I look at myself in the mirror. Tears still fall, slower now, and red rims my eyes. My cheeks are flushed, but for a stark moment, I look normal, like a regular woman wearing regular clothes, simply upset because she and her boyfriend had an argument.

Once that would be fixed within the hour.

No such luck for me.

Dressed and sad, I curl up on the bed with my arms around a pillow and stare at the door through blurry eyes, waiting for Kristof to reappear. He’d been so insistent and urgent that I can’t imagine I’ll be waiting long. My heart still pounds, making each breath tremble out of me, and I practice the things I want to say.

As soon as he appears, I’ll tell him straight.

I’m scared of leaving, not of him. I’m scared of being without the comforting security that being in a city I know gives me. I’ll tell him I’m sorry that I didn’t explain it clearly enough.

And then I’ll tell him he’s a dick for not listening to me.

Between the tears and the comfiness of the bed, my thoughts slowly drift, and before I know it, I’ve fallen asleep.

Unsettled, anxious dreams sweep through my mind, weaving the argument with being lost in an endless maze. The walls close in with each turn I take, desperately trying to find Kristof, but other than the distant call of his voice, he’s nowhere to be found.

Suddenly, I’m being shaken.

I jolt awake with a gasp, the skin on my face pulling tightly from all the dried tears. My room is dark, and the only light spills through from the open door. Kristof stands over me, cloaked in shadow, but I can make out the sharp line of his jaw and the dangerous glint in his eyes.

“Up,” he barks at me.

Blearily, I rub my eyes and begin to slide from the bed, but his impatience wins out and he grabs me from the bed by the arm. As he pulls me up, a spark of anger rises in me. Sleep has given me a chance to calm down in terms of being upset, but the irritation remains.

For being a man so in control, Kristof sure is pigheaded when he thinks he’s being proven right.

“I can stand myself,” I snap, jerking my arm free of his grasp.

He grunts but doesn’t reply. Yawning, I straighten my clothes as Kristof shoves a jacket into my arms.

“Downstairs, now.”

The suitcase is gone from the room. I grumble under my breath and slip the jacket on while Kristof leads the way out of the room and down the stairs. I’m struck suddenly with the reckless urge to shove him down the stairs. It would certainly make me feel better.

That thought is brief, and I shove it away, zipping up my jacket.

Kristof doesn’t say a word to me the entire way through the house and out into the garage. It’s not until the cool air bites my cheeks and spreads its long, chilled fingers through my hair that I realize this is the first time I’ve been outside without a collar since I arrived here. I could run right now if I were what Kristof thinks I am.

Out through the gate and down the road, back into the arms of my horrible family.

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