Page 65 of Shattered Altar (Makarova Bratva Duet)

“Who gave you that pearl of wisdom?”

“My dad.” She raises her eyes to mine for the first time all night.

The way she mentions him tells me everything I need to know. They were close. The loss of him still weighs heavily on her. More heavily than I ever suspected.

“In this case, your father was right.”

“He usually was,” she says softly.

I let her soak in the silence. It seems as though she needs the space to breathe, to unclench.

She’s quiet for a while. Then she turns her eyes to the pond and starts talking.

“He had this amazing laugh. Like, booming, you know? The kind of laugh that scared little kids. Even though he loved kids. And he made a mean apple crumble, but he couldn’t cook anything else.”

She smiles to herself at memories only she can see.

“In the evenings, he used to sit at the counter and whittle while I did my homework at the kitchen table. If I asked him for help, he dropped his tools and came over right away. Even though he didn’t know any of the answers. He was the same with Mia and Rob, too. He taught us to love each other fiercely. He told us to have each other’s backs. And we always have. We always will.”

She turns her eyes to mine, and I see it then: the strength that’s been on reserve. The resilience that she’s not sure she possesses. It’s all there in spades.

It just needed a little coaxing to emerge.

“I get it,” I say. “You’ll protect your brother like he’ll protect you.”

She nods.

“It’s a beautiful sentiment to live by,” I tell her, leaning forward. “But there’s one problem.”

“Which is?”

“None of you were prepared for me. I am not your run-of-the-mill family drama, your little bump in the road. I am not some problem that can simply be overcome with a little strength and perseverance and elbow grease, Olivia.”

“What are you then?”

“A fucking hurricane,” I growl. “And I will destroy everything in my path if you make me.”

“He’s my brother,” she whispers.

“And why should I care? You aren’t anyone to me.”

She flinches violently. Her face floods with hurt. It’s the only moment in my life that I can remember coming close to feeling regret.

“Why did you pick me?” she asks suddenly, once the silence has festered into something distinctly heavy. “Mia was an option, too.”

“I think you already know the answer to that.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

“You were the better target,” I explain bluntly. “Young. Naïve. Easy to manipulate.”

She knew exactly what I was going to say, and yet she cringes at each word. She lets me see just how much my opinion scalds her.

Mistake after mistake, kiska.

“Did you always intend on sleeping with me?”

“Is there an answer that will make you feel better?” I ask.

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