Page 43 of Unleashed

“And I’ll keep my promise. That doesn’t mean I don’t get to talk to him aboutyou.” He holds her gaze. “You’re my sister. I don’t care if you’re married. You’re part of this family, and I want to make sure you’re safe, especially when your husband is traveling.”

My heart melts a little.

The rest of them begin clearing the table, but Zoya stays near me, always eager to help. "I'll help in the kitchen," she says, but Rafail snaps again. “No. Sit.”

She quickly takes her place and sits.

I turn to him with a raised brow. "Do you always tell them what to do like this?” I bite back a sarcastic reply that I don’t think he’d appreciate and remember his admonition. “Rafail… relax.”

“Listen,” he says, leaning forward, his eyes dark and unflinching. The blunt tips of his rough fingertips press together. “This isn’t a request, Anissa. It’s a partnership, one my siblings will be as familiar with as you. You’ll learn how things work around here and fast.” His voice drops, cold and sharp. Poor Zoya flinches. “Ialwaystake care of what’s my responsibility—but you give meeverythingin return. No questions.”

“Zoya, help me with the dishes?” Rodion asks. She scurries out of the room before Rafail can stop her.

I find myself asking, “You don’t have staff that work for you? With a house this size, I would've thought you’d have people to cook and clean.”

“We do,” Rafail admits. “But my parents taught us the value of hard work. Independence is important.”

I nod, digesting this. "Interesting, Mr. Self-Sufficient. And yet, we seem to be getting along quite well."

Rafail smirks but offers no more details. I feel more awake now, the effects of the medication wearing off, and I’m starting to orient myself. The memory of who I was still escapes me, but I can feel bits and pieces slowly resurfacing.

I sit quietly. My job for today is observation, and one thing I note with certainty is that while everybody jokes and laughs with a camaraderie that is fitting for siblings, there's an underlying tone of respect they all have for Rafail. He's definitely more father figure than brother.

Even though we haven't been at this very long, the exhaustion from having to keep up with everything is starting to wear on me. I know he notices this when he places his hand on the small of my back. I don't even know if he realizes what he's doing as he draws small circles with his thumb, soothing, and I wonder which one of us he is trying to calm.

"Get the doctor on the line," he snaps to Semyon.

"About that… Yana said he’s, um, traveling," Semyon says with a cringe that tells me he is very well aware of the fact that his brother is definitely the one who will murder the messenger, regardless of the message.

"Have you asked how long? How far?"

"Not sure."

Rafail blows out a breath. "Find out."

I bite my tongue, just about to tell him that maybe he should say "please" once in a while, but I remember that he tied me to his bed stand for giving him shit earlier, and I'm not quite sure I want to test him already.

"It doesn't have to be your doctor," I tell him with a shrug. "I just want to talk to a doctor about what I can expect and what's happened."

"I want someone to understand the history and who they're dealing with," my new husband says, his eyes locking onto mine.

Semyon talks on his phone while Zoya and Rodion do the dishes. Glad to know that Rafail is an equal-opportunity employer, and that the men do shit right along with the women. But I guess that makes sense when you had to be both mother and father for many years.

A sharp knock at the door catches our attention. I stiffen when I realize that everyone—and I do mean everyone, even little Zoya—snaps to attention. Rodion’s hand is at his waist as if ready to pull a gun, and Semyon’s knees are slightly bent. Rafail has gone as still as a statue and already holds a gun in his hand.

Where did that evencomefrom?Jesus.

Once again, that flicker of familiarity ignites in me. Déjà vu, you could even call it. They've been here before, and so have I. Then why are none of them familiar?

I glance down at my hands, the sensation of cold, hard steel lingering as I remember… I know how to hold a gun. My fingerstwitch involuntarily, and the question rises in my mind:Do I know how to use it?

Before I even realize what I’m doing, my mind is already running through a series of instinctive motions as if coldly calculating how to survive.

I belong here. I’m not a fish out of water like I thought. I’m missing parts of the puzzle, but this life—this life is not unfamiliar to me.

My gaze flicks to the wooden rolling pin hanging on the metal rack by the wall. It’ll do. I could grip it tightly, let its weight settle in my hand, then swing it hard—I’d aim for the head or temple, and if they got too close, I could drive the handle into a pair of ribs and feel the crack of bone. If that didn’t drop them, I’d use my good knee—hard and fast—to the groin. That would give me an opening. Then, a swift elbow to the jaw, a strike at the part of the throat, and find a way out.

Flashes of muscle memory flood my mind. My pulse races. Twisting, countering, neutralizing. The shadow of a figure in my mind was my trainer, but I can’t see her face. A woman’s voice, sharp and commanding. Her name is out of reach, but her lessons remain. She taught me how to fight. How to survive. Her voice, strong and distinctive but feminine, guides my instincts even now.

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