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“He was the head of an organized Russian gang,” he speaks quietly, but there’s a deadly firmness to his every word that has a chill seeping to my bone.
“What does that make you?” Hadn’t he said my father—or the man he believes is…was my father—tried to partner with his family? Had gone to war with his family. The Volkovs?
“It makes me the most dangerous man you’ll ever meet.” His dark eyes flash. “After my brother, Ilya, of course. The man is a fucking psychopath.”
The way he speaks the words, with very clear affection, scares me more than anything else thus far.
“I don’t know what any of that has to do with me going home.” I just want to escape this hell, and forget I ever lived any of it. Goodness, I’m going to need therapy for the rest of my life. On a librarian’s salary, that’s going to sting.
“As I said, your father was a dangerous man. When he was alive, you had his protection.” He smirks. “Whether you knew you had it or not.”
I shiver. “And now?”
“Now you don’t. You’re a sitting duck. Free for the taking by any number of his enemies to do with whatever depravities they want.”
I flinch, horror-struck. “You can’t mean…”
“I can. And I do.” He cocks his head to the side, studying me. “Whatever terrible thoughts you’re entertaining. It’s worse.”
“You’re saying people would seek me out, and hurt me, simply because I was his daughter?” What a ludicrous idea.
“I’m saying that Ivan Popov destroyed a lot of lives. He betrayed a lot of dangerous people, and the knowledge that he hid a precious daughter—” He tips his head closer to mine, voice pitching low with threat. “A little princess. Well, there’s no telling just how many of them are hunting you now.”
“But—” I sputter. “You said he’s dead.”
God, even the words hurt. Daddy. Who were you?
“He is.”
“Then what’s the point.” I’m so frustrated, I want to pull at my hair. I want to scream. “It’s not like they would be hurting him by taking me.”
“Oh.” The dark pitch to his voice turns black as night. “But taking you would be so fun.”
I take a quick step back, an involuntary need to escape the devil that is this man. To cower and hide. My heart kicks, lurching as I topple back. The chair I’d been sitting in before catches me, and I gasp a small shriek when he bends forward to plant massive hands on the cushioned arms that imprison my body.
“Make no mistake, my little Ruby, you are a beautiful woman—but you were his little princess. You shimmer with the exquisiteness of your namesake; your innocence of this world is a rare and coveted thing. Men would murder and maim to possess you, as they murder and maim to possess the gems, they pluck from the bloodmines.” He inhales through his nose, and I feel as though he’s inhaling me. My fear. My desperation. My sorrow… “Understand now, those who hunt you, who shed blood to possess you, they won’t be tender with you. You will not be safe from the ruin you will know under their touch?—”
“I choose my brother,” I cry out, hating that fear quakes inside my bones, rattling my entire body to the very foundation of my crumbling soul.
I’ve never felt hunted ever before in my life. Growing up in a small American town, I’d frequented the church and related activities. I attended school. I spent my time in the library, or strolling in the parks, safe from these men who prey on women like animals. But the way he towers over me like this, his massive body angled to hover over my much smaller, terrifyingly weaker frame, makes me feel like a kitten in the jowls of a bear.
He breathes out heavily through his nose, still hovering above me even as I angle my face away, unable to look at him. Tears stream down my face, shame leaking from my body as I do my very best to sob quietly. To be unseen.
I’ve read literature of strength in war. Of sorrow and resilience. My most favorite, and deeply beloved books speak of the trials and tribulations a single soul can overcome endowed exclusively with will.
It appears, my will is broken. Or maybe I never really had any to begin with.
I’ve always thought myself strong. I’ve always considered my faith in God unshakeable. My resilience to be good and strong and compassionate, ironclad. I was so deeply, painfully, agonizingly wrong.
I am none of those things. I am weak and fragile and so very afraid.
I am broken.
It only took one monster to ensnare me between his claws, and I’ve crumbled. I don’t sit in the silence of the practiced under pressure. No, I’m the one who crumbles and chips away. Who sobs and pleads. Who shatters.
I’m so ashamed.
And I feel so betrayed. By my father for being whatever he was. By Mama for leaving me in death to face this mess alone. By the very God who gave me this life.
