Page 161 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

“You know they call you the blonde vixen,” I remark. “Can’t say that I see it.”

“That’s because I’m not playing the part of the blonde vixen right now,” she says. “I’m just… Jennifer.”

“And what about Isabella?”

She stops short. A muscle in her jaw twitches with tension. “Isabella is dead,” she snarls. “Let’s leave it at that, got it?”

I’ve kept silent on this for long enough. She’s had more than enough time to reconcile with her past.

“You loved her.”

She looks down like she doesn’t want to be having this conversation. But she wants to argue, too. She wants to fight about it—because she never really put the loss behind her. She never mourned.

“She was… special,” Jennifer says quietly. “She was everything I wanted to be. And losing her…”

“It was necessary.”

“I know that,” she snaps. “But it still hurts.”

“Is that why you never talk about her? Is that why you kept the scarf?”

She gets off the sofa and starts pacing in front of me. I sip my whiskey and watch as she tries to work out the pain that she’s been carrying around ever since I told her to pull the trigger on Isabella.

At last, she grinds to a halt and turns to me, her eyes wild but sad at the same time. “I know I shouldn’t have,” she says with a sigh. “You told me to get rid of any trace of her. And I did... mostly. But that scarf was so much a part of her.”

“I know.”

“Do you know?” she asks. “Do you really?”

“Jennifer,” I say slowly, “what are you trying to tell me?”

She meets my eyes for a moment before she looks away. Her body sags with fatigue.

“Nothing,” she murmurs. “I’m not saying anything at all.”

“You have to move on,” I tell her.

“I know,” she says. “I’ve spent the last year trying.”

“Any progress?”

“Some,” she admits. “Mostly, it depends on the day. There’s good and there’s bad.”

“Today’s a bad day, huh?”

She nods.

I pick up my glass of whiskey and offer it to her. “Then drink.”

She takes the glass and knocks it back, emptying it one gulp. Her nose scrunches. “Fuck! That’s strong.”

“You’re supposed to sip it, you know. That’s three grand you just chugged.”

“I think we just established I’m having a bad day. You don’t sip on a bad day.” She shivers. “But sweet Jesus, that burns.”

She gets up, taking my glass with her. Then she walks over to the bar and pours herself another.

“You’re not getting this back, just so you know,” she informs me. She sinks onto the couch, takes a sip—slightly smaller this time—and sighs. “Do you ever feel guilty about the men you’ve killed? The families you’ve broken up?”

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