Page 37 of Prince of Control
We reach the end of the block, and Anya points to the left. “I’m going this way.”
“I’ll see you later. Keep digging for me.” I walk north to my statistics class.
“Yes, pakhan,” she calls over her shoulder.
I point in warning as we walk farther away from each other. “Don’t call me that.”
“Just accept it.”
Lara
After my last class, I walk toward Whisper’s End, the bar Denis named to meet him.
Like yesterday, I avoided Baranov House all day. I have time between classes or at lunch to walk back there, but instead, I ate at the food court and studied in the library.
I don’t really want to. I’m having a pity party for myself, and it’s definitely a party of one.
My phone rings as I’m walking with a Facetime call.
I check the screen and sigh. It’s my mom. She’s probably desperate to know whether I’m still alive. I stop under the shade of a tree and answer. “Mama.”
“Lara, thank God,” my mom exclaims in Ukrainian, her native language, and bursts into tears.
I immediately feel terrible for not taking her calls. I also still feel a little bad about ruining my wedding night.
And I’m homesick. Seeing my mom hits hard.
I sink onto a park bench under the tree, uncontrollably crying. “Ah, Mama,” I tell her, “this is why I didn’t call you yesterday. I knew you’d make me cry.”
My mom wipes her tears. There’s a clay smudge on her face. I can see she’s calling from her pottery studio. “Sweetheart, I was so worried. Are you okay? I’m so sorry for everything you’re going through.”
I let the tears out since there’s no stopping them now, and, surprisingly, they pass after just a few moments. When I can calm down and breathe, I show her the wedding ring. “Well,” I draw in a terraced breath. “I’m married.”
“I know, my love. Is he decent enough? What’s he like?”
“I don’t know,” I moan. That bit of regret over last night surges again, and I firmly remind myself that I am the victim here.
My mom wipes her tears and cocks her head at me, peering into the screen like she wishes she could climb through and hug me. “He must not be that bad.”
I frown, offended that she would defend him. “What makes you say that?”
“Well, you sound conflicted. That means you like something about him. What is the conflict? Are you missing the guy you were dating in Paris? Abrasha?”
“Brash? No. He keeps calling, though.” I sigh. “The conflict is that I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be married. I’m scared for you and Papa and for me.”
“We’re safe. We’re all safe. Your father believed this was the best way to ensure our safety.” I hear the disagreement in her tone. “But tell me about Benjamin. I haven’t seen him since he was in preschool.”
“He’s…” I think of what I went to tell my mother. I return to my complaints. “Mama, Baron–that’s what they call him here–thinks he owns me. Owns me.”
“Mm.” My mom makes a noncommittal sound. “Bratva men are protective.”
“Not just protective. He said I belonged to him.”
“So what’s the good part?”
“There is no good part!” I exclaim, exasperated.
“I can tell there is. I heard it in your voice. You like him, despite your objections.”
