Page 51 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

Anythingis such a big word, so all-encompassing.

… My mom and me, just us, on that Hawaii vacation we always promised each other we’d go on, or happy in some villa somewhere in the balmy French countryside, some place where people are happy, or happier at least, and have siestas and smile more often than not.

… A bank account where I laugh every time I look at it, it’s so full.

… A gallery to put my paintings in—maybe for other people, maybe just for myself.

I don’t want much. Only itismuch for a girl like me.

“Money,” he’s saying now, “Power. Favors. Protection.”

Anything I want …

Anything.

I can see it so clearly in my eye—becoming the girl I painted: the one swathed in pinks and oranges and yellows, effervescent in her safety, in her knowledge of her mom being looked after. The girl who smiles and means it. The girl who’s untouchable.

But then I see it—the hands behind the scenes. Forever pulling my strings like a marionette, pulling up a smile here, a kiss-for-the-cameras there.

I can’t do it.

Not even for those things—safety, happiness, freedom from fear. I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be freedom, not really. Just a different way of being enslaved.

“You’re not serious,” I say quietly.

Gavril’s eyes are coals smoldering with danger. “I don’t joke about things like this.”

Now that we’re closer, his smell, how could I forget his overpowering, head-messing musk…

“Thanks, but I have to go.” I throw myself forward fast—too fast for thought, or second thoughts, anyway, my bare feet slapping loud on the floor.

He doesn’t follow me, only his unconcerned voice. “The offer’s still on the table.”

I whirl around. “I’m not going to change my mind, get it?” I’m wanting a reaction, a something, but he just sits there. “You’re insane.”

Gavril gives me a wolfish smile. “I’ve been called worse.” He spreads his hands, palms to the ceiling. “That is my offer, at any rate: be my wife, and have everything you ever wanted.”

“Except my freedom.” I’m at the door now, marching out, feeling like some stupid Victorian heroine defending her nonexistent valor, extra ridiculous since I’m in a bathrobe. “You forgot that part.”

I storm out of there, dimly grateful there’s only one main fancy hallway by the looks of it, since I’ve never been much good at directions and …

Shit.

Earth to Joy, you’re trying to leave barefoot and in a freaking bathrobe.Yep, the only thing worse than leaving here in my old filthy clothes.

The solution isn’t hard—the bathroom door is the next one down. I go in, lock the door behind me, reluctantly take off the soft bathrobe with one final goodbye stroke, then put on my clothes without looking at my reflection.

Right now, I don’t want to see what the girl in the mirror thinks of me.

She feels what I feel rising up in my stomach: the hunger. The hunger I know is waiting for me in the future if I walk out that door. The hunger for food, safety, solace.

I tell myself to just agree to it for another hour, another day. Just to get a few more meals, some new clothes, some stress-free time. Just to figure something else out.

“No,” I say out loud.

Screw it. Screw the smart thing masquerading as the right thing.

No, I know how this works. Little concessions turn into big ones, small allowances into bigger allowances. That’s how my mom ended up at her shit job, with Damon.

---