Page 54 of Bratva's Vow
Curled up on the bed, knees tucked to his chest, face half-buried in a mountain of pillows like he could hide from the world. But mostly from me.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Every small movement felt magnified. The way his shoulders trembled when he thought no one was looking. The way he clutched the blanket, fingers white-knuckled. The way he pressed his lips together until they trembled and finally parted on a sigh that made something twist painfully low in my gut.
He wasn’t sleeping.
He wasn’t eating.
He wasn’t talking to me.
He was hurting.
And I couldn’t do a damn thing but watch it happen.
Sometimes, when he’d had enough, he would cry.
The first time it happened, I’d bolted from my office and had Sergei drive me back home instantly. I nearly took the fucking door off its hinges to get to him.
For showing him I cared, he threw a painting from the wall at me. Followed by other missiles. What he threw wasn’t important. What mattered was the pure hate in his eyes. The way his voice cracked as he screamed at me to get the fuck out and never come back.
I left.
Not because I was afraid of Wren.
But because I was afraid of myself.
Afraid of what that look of betrayal did to me.
I was the Pakhan.
I’d cut men’s throats in alleys. I’d ordered executions with my coffee still hot on my desk. I’d buried enemies so deep they were nothing but forgotten names.
But Wren crying?
That shattered me in a way blood and broken bones never could.
I should’ve been strong enough to face him.
I wasn’t.
So now, I watched.
Like a fucking coward, I watched him cry on a screen instead of kneeling at his feet and begging for forgiveness. He’d made it clear he wouldn’t forgive me. How could I blame him? I was the reason his father was dead, and I’d kept it from him.
Still, I held out hope. If he’d lied to the cops for me, surely all wasn’t lost.
I scrubbed a hand down my face, my jaw tight as I forced myself to tear my gaze away from the monitor.
But it dragged me back.
Over and over again, like punishment.
The soft knock on the office door came almost as a relief.
“Come in,” I said roughly, my voice like gravel scraping against itself.
Archie stepped in, dressed in one of his usual immaculate gray suits that looked more comfortable on him than skin. He came around and placed a fresh cup of coffee I hadn’t asked for on my desk.
I’d gotten used to Wren bringing me coffee. Decaf he would insist, even when I asked him for something stronger. Because I already had trouble going to bed at night, and he slept better when I was next to him.
