Page 113 of Twisted Pact
“Come in.” She steps back to let me enter. “I could use the company.”
I follow her inside and close the door behind us. The bedroom is sparse, with concrete walls and minimal furniture. Everything is designed for function rather than comfort, and it’s not the ideal environment for a pregnant woman who needs rest.
“What did your father say?” I ask.
She sinks onto the edge of the bed. “Too much to process right now.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“He thinks I should call my mother and give her a chance to explain why she left.”
I sit in the chair by the window. “Do you want to call her?”
“I don’t know.” She wraps her arms around herself. “Part of me wants to hear her side, but I’m still so angry that she walked away when everything fell apart.”
“Anger and curiosity can coexist.”
“That’s what Papa said. More or less. Did you know your mother?”
The question catches me off-guard. “She died when I was young.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.” I lean back in the chair and study the ceiling. “But I remember enough. She was gentle in ways that didn’t fit this world. Like she’d been dropped into the wrong life and was trying to make the best of it.”
“Like my mother.”
“Probably. Women who aren’t built for violence tend to break. Either they adapt or they leave. Your mother chose to leave.”
“You make it sound so clinical.”
“It is clinical. Survival instinct overrides social obligation. When the stress becomes life-threatening, people protect themselves.”
Mila stands and walks to where I’m sitting. She places her hand on my shoulder—the good one—and squeezes. “Papa said something similar. That Mama’s leaving wasn’t weakness. It was self-preservation.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I’m starting to.” She moves her hand to trace the edge of the bandage covering my wound. “How’s your shoulder?”
“Sore. Dr. Orlov says it’s healing properly.”
“You should be resting instead of checking on me.”
“I’ll rest when I know you’re okay.”
She leans down and presses her forehead against mine. The gesture is intimate without being sexual. Just two people existing in the same space and finding comfort in proximity.
“I’m scared,” she whispers.
“Of what?”
“Becoming my mother. Reaching the breaking point where I can’t handle this world anymore and have to choose between staying and surviving.”
I cup her face in my hands. “You’re stronger than you think.”
“Am I? Because right now, I feel like I’m barely holding on. Papa was kidnapped. You got shot. Three men died. And I’m supposed to just accept that this is normal? That this is the life our child will grow up in?”
“It doesn’t have to be normal for them.”
