Page 85 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

Rose pats my shoulder reassuringly. Then there’s a gentle knock on our door. Rose gets up to answer it, and I know it’s Dr. Bardhi before she even opens up.

I go lay down on my bed, familiar with the routine by now.

“Arya,” Dr. Bardhi says gently, tipping his head in greeting. “Good to see you.”

I say nothing. It’s not exactly a mutual feeling.

The exam goes the same way it has every few days for the last six weeks. The prodding fingers, like someone testing fruit for ripeness. Thehmmsandmmmsof a somber man who knows exactly what his job entails.

When he’s done, he goes into our bathroom to wash his hands. I get dressed again. I’m blinking back tears, knowing already what he’ll say.

But I don’t ask.

He has to say the words. I won’t say them for him.

As soon as he is sitting across from me, his mustache graying at the corners, Bardhi’s eyes crinkle with a sad smile. “Your body is healthy, Arya.”

The words hit me like a physical blow to the chest. Nausea roils inside of me. I don’t need a mirror to know I’m a violent shade of green.

He sighs and grabs his black bag from the floor. But before he stands up, he lowers his head and his voice, not looking at me as he speaks. “I’m sorry, Arya. I really am. But I can’t protect you anymore.”

And then he’s gone.

Back through the door he came in.

I see him turn to the left—towards Taras’s private quarters—and I know he’s headed to tell the Albanian monster that his latest prize is finally ready to consume.

27

Arya

Not even fifteen minutes after the doctor leaves, a maid slinks into our room with a red silk dress draped over her arm.

She hangs it on the wardrobe and leaves without a word or a shred of eye contact. As if what’s about to happen to me—what’s been happening to Rose night after night after night—is contagious.

Like if she gets too close, she’ll find herself in Taras’s room, too, screaming for help that will never come.

“We’re doing great. Thanks so much for asking,” Rose snarls with vicious sarcasm at the woman’s retreating back.

I know she wants to share some of her bravery with me. But I’m too busy trying not to pass out to care. Trying not to scream. Trying not to melt down into a quivering puddle of fear.

The silence in the room is all-consuming. We both know what happens next.

A knock on the door.

An invitation to “dinner.”

Rose leaves most nights to “have dinner” with Taras. I knew all along what it meant. I knew where she was going and what she was doing. I knew why she didn’t come back until late at night or, some nights, not at all.

But I allowed myself not to think about it. I allowed myself to be numb to it.

Now that it’s my turn, I’m a mess.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble, rolling over and burying my face in my pillow. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“For what, babe?” Rose croons.

“For…” I don’t know how to say it without it coming out wrong. “For not being more sympathetic the last six weeks. You just always left this room so confident, your head held high. I guess I didn’t let myself see how much he was hurting you.”

---