Page 24 of Broken Sins (Volkov Bratva 3)

“I’ll take it,” I announce. They’re all still arguing back and forth, so nobody hears me. I repeat myself, louder. “I’ll take it. I’ll take the fall.”

Frat Star #3, the one who made his friend ease up on the peer pressure to snort a line of coke, fixes me with a cold glare. “What’d you just say?”

“I’ll take the fall for the drugs. I’ll say it was mine. All of it.”

“Are you joking?” He turns to his friends. “She’s joking, right? Is this bitch for real?”

Clumsily, I take to my feet and rearrange my shirt to cover my chest as best as I can. It leaves a lot to be desired, but it will have to do for now. “I’m serious. I’ll take it.”

“If she wants to take it, let her take it, man! Are you stupid?” hisses #1. He’s beefy and redheaded with green eyes, like an overgrown leprechaun on steroids.

“Fine,” shrugs #3. “She can take it. Just …” The knocking sounds again and he whirls towards the hotel door with a panic. “Just act fucking normal, quick!” He shoves me towards the door as they all scatter in different directions and try to look as innocuous as they can.

The room is still spinning, even worse than it was before. I glance up at the popcorn ceiling. It’s spelling out words in a language I can’t read, in letters that appear and shift shape and then disappear before I can get a grasp on what it’s trying to tell me. Or maybe I’m just wasted and scared and running on powerful adrenaline after the assault.

I can handle anything you need …

The cops will get me out of here, and then my dad will get me away from the cops. It’s not a perfect plan, but it’s a hell of a lot better than staying in this locked room, with no allies, only a quartet of rapists for company. Once I’m away from this hotel and a little bit sobered up, I can use my phone call to talk to my father, and he will fix everything.

Then I’ll—I don’t know, join a nunnery or something. I’m never drinking again, that’s for damn sure. I wonder vaguely where Anastasia and her beau went. I hope to God she’s safe and it’s all consensual. After what happened to me, I have my doubts. She’s a tough girl though, way tougher than me. She’ll be fine. I pray.

The walk to the door seems like it’s endless and instantaneous all at once. I blink and I’m standing in front of it. I can hear the shuffling of a group of men outside. A fist smashes against the wood and that voice roars again, “Last chance! Open the goddamn door!”

Breathe,I tell myself.These are your saviors. This is your escape route. Sober up, dial in, and get out of here.

I open the door.

There are four men on the other side. My first thought, which makes absolutely no sense whatsoever, is that they are all stunningly gorgeous. They are massive, for starters. Each of them is well over six feet. They fill out their uniforms well, all burly in blue. I scan their badges, forcing my eyes to make sense of the letters. Mueller, O’Shaughnessy, Rodriguez, and … I think the one in the back says Underwood, but I’m not totally sure.

I make eye contact with the officer in front, the one who was knocking. As soon as he sees me, he freezes. It’s the strangest thing. I swear I see a glimmer of something akin to recognition in his eyes, although I’m positive I’ve never met this man before in my life. He looks—scared, almost? I don’t know how to describe it.

Then, as fast as it appeared, the shock is gone, and a mask of determination clicks back into place in his face. He’s got such dark eyes, I notice, like they’re all pupil, no iris whatsoever. A real serious expression on his face, too. All of them look fairly serious actually, now that I’m taking note. Except for the one in the very back, who has a borderline maniacal gleam in his eye, like kicking down doors and arresting college students is how he gets his kicks. He’s got awfully shaggy hair for a cop. Aren’t they all supposed to get matching crew cuts or something?

“Ma’am,” barks the one in front, pulling my eyes back up to his. “We received reports of illicit activity taking place in this room.” He’s forcing his way into the room, I notice suddenly, though it’s in a subtle enough fashion that we’re already backed up. I feel a chill run through me. Did someone mess with the A/C? My skin—so much of it is visible; I’m ridiculously near-naked and I can feel the gaze of each of the four cops raking down over me—prickles up in goose bumps.

“Oh,” I stammer stupidly. “I, uh—well, we were just, um …”

Whatever stupid thing I was going to make up falls from my lips. In the face of the officers’ intensity, my plan seems stupid. Maybe the frat guys were harmless by comparison. These cops are huge, brooding, and anger is radiating off them like heat waves. I’ve never felt so intimidated by officers of the law before. Something about them is—off,somehow. I’m way too drunk to process that feeling, but there’s just a sense of wrongness churning beneath the surface.

I have a sudden urge to try to backtrack. I’ll figure out my own way out of here. I don’t want to go with them anymore. “No, there’s nothing—”

“We need to come in.” This time, he doesn’t wait for an answer. He pushes through, and two of his colleagues follow him, though the shaggy-haired one merely takes a step forward to block off the whole doorway. They all have their peaked caps pulled low over their faces, but I could swear that he has piercings in his eyebrows. That can’t be right. Shaggy hair is one thing, but surely no cop is allowed to have facial jewelry?

Breathe, Milly, I tell myself for the second time in as many minutes.These are police officers. They’re going to get you away from here. That’s a good thing. You’re just drunk and imagining stuff that’s not true. LA is a progressive city; maybe cops here can have piercings if they want to. They’re the good guys, remember?

As the daughter of Luka Volkov, maybe I don’t fully believe that all cops are good guys, but in this scenario, I think they’re better than the alternative group of men who are still seated around the room like nothing notable is happening at all. I press myself up against the wall. I don’t want to expose my back to the long-haired pierced officer who is blocking the doorway. But nor do I want to keep a blind eye to what’s happening further within the hotel room.

I gulp and listen. “Is this yours, son?” the lead officer is asking, pointing with his Mag-Lite flashlight towards the cocaine-laden coffee table.

“No—no, sir,” stutters one of the Frat Stars. I can’t see which it is behind the bulk of the second officer. Right then, he turns and looks at me. His eyes are piercingly green, set under bushy eyebrows that are arrowed down with an almost sorrowful expression.

I’m breathing faster now, I realize. My pulse is climbing. And no matter how many times I keep telling myself to breathe and relax, I just can’t shake the feeling of utter wrongness.

“No, sir,” agrees another of the Frat Stars. “It’s hers.” He points at me. Everyone turns to look.

All four cops are staring at me now with searing, blazing, impossibly intense expressions on their faces. I feel skewered. Cornered. I want out. I want to click my heels three times and wake up in Kansas with my little dog Toto and forget all of this ever happened.

But when I swallow and blink, nothing changes.

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