Page 48 of Innocent Bratva Virgin

“Did you just…” Vlad and I looked over at Ivan, whose mouth had dropped all the way open. “What in the fuck sticks? You still have an accent.”

Vlad chuckled lightly, walking over to his brother and bringing him in for a rough hug. They stayed like that for a moment until Abe shot over and yanked Vlad back, taking his face in both hands.

“It’s been a long fucking time since I’ve heard that voice.” For as coarse and mean-spirited as the guy was, I could see the glassy coating over his eyes. “Fucking hell, dude.”

Vlad lifted a hand, resting it on Abe’s shoulder. He looked between his brothers, grinning, before he met Ivan with a serious gaze.

“Thank you.” He still sounded so hoarse. “For protecting me for as long as you could.”

Ivan’s expression was filled with unspoken relief and grief. He’d clearly done a lot for his little brother, and from what I knew of the situation, that made sense. Ivan gave off big “protector” vibes.

“I don’t plan on stopping any time soon, ????.” Ivan pulled Vlad closer, kissing his temple. “Unless you get better at doing it yourself.”

The brothers chuckled, and I felt very much like an odd spectator to an event that was supposed to be private. When they separated, Ivan and Abe got back into the car while Vlad waited a moment and then opened the door for me.

“Let’s get you home.”

“Okay.”

I nodded, climbing inside, but even after years of not speaking, I knew that Vlad understood tone. Both of ours wereflat, and there was no mistaking the dread that clung to the few short words we exchanged.

Chapter 20 - Vlad

I stood outside the office in the hallway, fiddling with the small loop of silver that I’d found in my wallet. Weirdly enough, I hadn’t actually gone digging around in there until I scheduled this appointment, looking for that forged insurance card.

That’s when I’d found it—Emory’s ring. I wasn’t sure when she’d given it to me, especially with everything that we’d been through since I crashed my way into her life. But seeing it there had given me the final push to go to this visit with her.

Sure, I had to do it all online because the idea of actually speaking to her was terrifying, but look, here I was, ready to face that fear instead of being a fucking coward.

As I scanned over the glass door and the weird textured wallpaper that places like this insisted on using, I noticed the lingering char on the wall above the trashcan. It had been where I’d set that fire, and it hadn’t been cleaned or repaired yet.

Objectively, I knew that it hadn’t been that long since the fateful date when I’d been shot and dragged myself here for help. And still, it felt like it had been years, decades. So much had happened between then and now, so much that I still didn’t entirely believe.

But I wasn’t here to just stand in the hall, now was I?

With a heavy sigh, I pushed through the main doors and walked up to the reception desk. The same woman from before sat there—Antoinette, if I remembered correctly. I greeted her with a half-hearted smile, and she perked up in her seat.

“Hello, Mr. Ustinov. Are you here for your next session?"

I nodded, and the woman looked down at her computer screen. “Okay. Umm, yeah. It looks like you’re just a few minutes late, so that should be fine. Let me page Emory.”

Again, I offered a simple nod and stepped away from the desk, wandering over to the waiting area but not sitting down. I knew I was a bit late. I hadn’t really planned on coming. I was going to just not show up because there was no insurance to charge, and we’d destroyed the card on file.

But then I realized what I already knew. I didn’t want to be apart from Emory, and if seeing her as a therapist was the only way to keep seeing her, so be it.

“All right, Mr. Ustinov, you can head back. Emory is just finishing up some paperwork.”

Giving the receptionist a grin, I walked over to the long hallway that led to Emory’s office. The familiar route was stained with various memories—my first time here, sneaking in while bleeding out…

I wondered if this visit would be as positive as the first meeting or as disastrous as the second.

When I reached Emory’s office, I knocked on the door, which was open with just a crack. She cleared her throat before calling out, “Come in,” and my stomach clenched hard as my pulse skyrocketed.

It took a good two seconds before I could get myself moving, and when I brushed my shoes over the dense carpet, it was too loud in my ears. The boom of my heartbeat was too noisy, too. The lights were too bright, and I was strongly considering just turning around and leaving.

But I didn’t.

As I stepped into her office, I found Emory behind her desk—likely using it like a shield—and she looked up at me with an uncharacteristically neutral expression. I was used to seeing warm shine from her eyes, but she’d battened down the hatches and wasn’t giving me anything to go off of.

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