Page 39 of Bratva Butcher

“I just have one more question.” Autumn scooted to the edge of the cot, placing her feet on the ground. She braced her forearms on her thighs, interlocking her fingers. “Well, more of an observation, really.”

I waved a hand through the air idly, signalling for her to continue.

“While what you revealedwasinteresting and certainly explained a lot of things, like why Talon has such a massive hard-on for you, I just don’t understand why you put up such a big fight to share it.”

A tight ball of anxiety wound its way through my chest. “You’re right. Thatismore of an observation than a question.”

She gave me an “are you serious?” kind of look, head tilted slightly to the side, brows slightly lowered, eyes narrowed. “We’re getting along so well, Butcher. Don’t ruin it now with your shitty personality.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Let me guess. You find it hard to talk to anyone about anything, whether it be something small and inconsequential like this or something huge and secretive, like your favourite colour.”

Humor trickled through me, slow at first, like a blocked dam, only allowing tiny rivulets of water to slip through. “You think something as simple as a favourite colour is some huge secret?”

“Foryou? Almost definitely. I suspect you’d guard something that deeply personal with your life.”

She was being cheeky. Almost playful, if that smirk on her lips was any indication. And for some strange reason, I felt likeplaying along. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d spoken so much with another person.

I didn’t want it to end.

“Yellow.”

“Yellow,” she repeated, confused. Her eyes widened. “Yellow,” she stated, voice stronger. Then she frowned. “Wait, yellow?Yellowis your favorite colour? Seriously?” She didn’t let me answer, quickly saying, “No way. No. Way! The Bratva Butcher’s favorite colour isyellow? I don’t believe it.”

Her response would have been fucking hilarious if it wasn’t for one simple truth. “It’s my wife’s favorite colour.” Sadness enveloped me, gripping my soul, threatening to pull me under. “Was,” I corrected, voice rough.

It was impossible to hide my emotions. When it came to my late wife, the grief, the agony, the absolutely gut wrenching emptiness I felt at her absence was something I couldn’t hide. So, I knew that, regardless of the slightly stunned expression on Autumn’s face, she could see it.

She wasn’t stupid. She knew I was the Bratva Butcher, and therefore, knew what I’d done to earn that title.

And the why.

Most people, when faced with someone else’s grief, always said the same things.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“I wish there was something I could do.”

“If there’s anything you need, let me know.”

But Autumn said nothing like that, surprising me for the umpteenth time when she softly murmured, “What does love feel like?”

Chapter Fifteen

Autumn DeValos

“What?” Dimitri echoed, hiseyes lit with surprise.

I suppose I couldn’t blame him. It was a bizarre question for a woman in her forties to ask, but after seeing that look of utter reverence and devotion in his eyes, I couldn’t help but wonder what it felt like.

What itreallyfelt like. Was it all mushy and gooey like they showed you in movies? Or was it deeper than that?

Love was not something in my world. Never had been. Not even with my family. My parents didn’t evenlikeme. I was far too different for them, and they made that known to me every single day of my life. I said things I shouldn’t and did things that most normal kids wouldn’t do. They couldn’t handle that, and I’d grown up feeling like an outsider among my own blood.

Over the years, that rift just grew bigger and bigger. I never learnt how to build proper connections with others; those meaningful kinds of connections you needed to really become close with someone. And then, eventually, it got to a point where I didn’t even want it. I didn’t want friends. I didn’t want a boyfriend or a girlfriend. It all held zero appeal to me.

So, there I was, a forty-three-year-old woman who’d never experienced love before.

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