Page 49 of Mountain Mens' Curvy Obsession

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Anya

Memories are coming back, but nowhere near as quickly or as completely as I want. Yet, when I think of my father, my mother, my brother, and the Bratva, a bigger picture emerges in my head.

Bits and pieces come together, and I find that walking helps. A lot. The thick woods surrounding the lodge afford me plenty of room to wander and ponder. It’s quiet out there. Cold, too, but my winter parka keeps me warm enough for at least an hour, maybe two.

“You can’t go through with this,” Aleks told our father once.

The words sound so clear in my mind, as if I’m standing there right now, witnessing the moment. But I was young, maybe eight and hiding under the desk. They had no idea I could hear them.

“We made a promise, Aleks,” our father said.

“Screw the promise. Give the Sokolovs something. Anything.”

I don’t know what they’re talking about, but Aleks is remarkably passionate about it. I peer out from under the desk, admiring his strong jaw and the way the sunlight streaming through the windows dances in his platinum-blonde hair. I want to ask what they’re talking about.

There’s a sense of duty deeply ingrained in me.

It’s something I must do, even though I don’t want to do it.

Panting from the swelling headache, I sit on an old tree stump and lean forward, trying to ride out the pain. I’m pretty far from the lodge, and I’ve been recovering some interesting moments from my past. I don’t want to stop just yet.

“I’ll run away,” I say to Aleks on a different occasion, glancing at my own reflection in a mirror.

We’re in my room. I’m wearing a prep school uniform: dark green tweed with a white shirt. My hair is braided in two tight plaits that run down my back. I can’t be more than sixteen, and so miserable.

“I will. Father won’t even realize I’m gone until it’s too late.”

“Don’t be foolish, Anya,” Aleks insists. “I’m trying to work out a different deal. Be patient. I promise, I’ll get us out of this.”

“I’d rather die than—”

“Anya!” A woman’s voice pierces through my memory.

Much like a cloud of smoke, the image dissipates. I reach out into the darkness that replaces it, grasping at something out of reach.

“Shit,” I curse under my breath and look up.

Breonna stands there. Her bright pink ski suit stands out against the ancient pine trees and the sea of pristine, white snow. Her red hair falls down her back in a ruby cascade. The white woolen hat is more for show; it barely covers her ears.

“Hey, Breonna,” I reply. “What are you doing out here?”

“You’re practically in my backyard,” she answers. “I’m just out on my morning walk. I spotted you from afar and figured the guys might be around, too.” Breonna pauses to look around. “Where are they?”

“Not here. I’m on my own.”

She gives me a long, curious look. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I was just out for a walk as well,” I reply with a weak smile. Had she not come around, I could have managed to dig a little deeper in my memory banks. I’d kill to remember everything, even if it hurts.

Perhaps if I remember everything, the grief I’ve been carrying around within me will subside. There’s no amount of lovemaking, not even with the three Hayes brothers, that can soothe my growing restlessness, as much as I wish it was that simple.

“How have you been?” Breonna asks, coming closer.

“More of the same,” I reply. The last thing I’m going to do is share my near-death experience with her. The Hayes brothers and I agreed to keep a tight lid on my identity and Max Sokolov’s involvement.

The name Max is starting to sound familiar to me, but more like by proxy. He’s related to someone I know—or knew. I’m not sure.

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