Page 63 of Shattered Cradle (Makarova Bratva Duet)

“I’m pretty sure you already do.”

He smirks. “Not all of it yet.”

I almost smile. And then I feel doubly guilty for almost smiling. What kind of daughter almost smiles mere hours after her mother’s death?

A death that never would have happened if it hadn't been for—

“Stop that.”

I look away from Aleks, pick nervously at my fingernail. “Stop what?”

“Stop trying to convince yourself that you’re responsible for this.”

“But she wouldn’t have been there at all if it hadn’t been for me.”

“And what about your siblings?” Aleks asks. “What about their part in this? Or are you the family martyr? Are you happy to take the blame while your siblings tell you all the ways in which your opinions don’t count?”

“Don’t go there,” I croak.

“Why?” he demands, refusing to back down. “Because it hurts to hear the truth? Or because you’re still trying to defend them even after what they tried to do to you?”

“They believehim.”

“Andyoubelieveme,” he replies. “What of it?”

I shake my head. “They don’t have all the information I do.”

"None of that matters. They shouldn't have forced you to do anything you didn't want to do. They are the reason you were in that hospital at all. They were trying to murder our baby, Olivia. You remember that part?"

I drop my head low.

“It wasn’t a rhetorical question, Olivia. Answer me. Do you remember?”

My voice is a thin, tiny whisper. “I remember.”

“Tell me again,” he says forcefully.

“They wanted me to abort our baby,” I say. A shiver races through me. It’s taking physical effort to get the words out, to let them sink in.

He nods, satisfied. “Maybe they regret it now. Or maybe they don’t. But at least you can be assured of one thing: your mother regretted it. She knew she was on the wrong side of things and she tried to change it. At least you have that.”

I nod, realizing that Aleks is right.

Mom tried to apologize to me, She looked in my eyes and I saw her guilt staring back at me. She said more to me in those final moments—tried to, at least—but for the life of me, I can’t remember what it was now.

“I don’t know how to go on," I whisper.

“Surviving is never easy.”

“Not even for you?”

He smiles. “I was built for survival.”

“Then I wish I were more like you.”

“You’re already on your way.”

At that, I feel the weight on my chest alleviate just a little. I place my hand over my stomach.

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