Page 13 of The Brat: Prequel

“I can be. Now, we still have a game to get through. Stepanov and friends, you go to the other side of the gym.” When they’re too busy glowering at me to obey his directive, Coach blows his whistle, loud enough to make me jump.

Sibirsky grabs Stepanov by the hand and hauls him onto his feet before they slouch away. Stepanov glowers at me, hatred seething in his eyes.

The urge to shiver overtakes me, but I wait, holding on until he glances away. No way do I want him to see that response as a weakness.

“Thanks for nothing, Karine,” I gripe at her, tugging on my skort and wishing for a few extra inches.

“Hey, that’s your fight. Not mine. Nobody messes with Timofai.”

She’s not wrong. Not for the first time, I’m left wondering if I should be talking to Maxim about him. Since Max became Pakhan, my position here has shifted. I can’t say that I ever felt safe, but the situation’s deteriorating beyond my control.

“They’re definitely targeting you more,” she points out, tone cool. Because the bitch doesn’t give a damn.

And she’s right—they are.

Whore is what they often call me. Ha! Little do they know that I’ve only ever kissed Shay and that was for a bet.

Still, it doesn’t take much to figure out what’s going on.

If it smells and looks Maxim-shaped, then Maxim’s at the bottom of it.

But… shit. He’s in Russia again. And I know he doesn’t like it when I call him when he’s there.

The game goes as I expected—atrociously. Even if I didn’t hate dodgeball on principle, I knew it’d turn violent. The school gets half their funding from mob-related activities but doesn’t think to discourage aggressive sports? Ha. Idiots.

When Stepanov hurls the ball at me, a move I braced for, I slam to the hardwood floor, hissing, “Ouch.”

Coach blows the whistle. “Stepanov, if you’re looking to get suspended, keep this up. We both know you’re on a warning anyway.”

Stepanov shrugs. “It was an accident, Coach.”

Right.

Still, I’m grateful to be out. Even removing me from the equation, the way the boys throw the ball at each other will leave bruises.

Then, with Coach distracted by the remaining fifteen or so players, I’m suddenly surrounded by the same clique from before. Gah, a setup?!

I tip up my chin. “What do you want?”

“For God’s sake!” Coach Grant yells out of the blue.

“Don’t worry about him,” Stepanov drawls. “Lesnoy will keep him nice and busy while we talk.”

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

He clucks his tongue. “Just Coach Grant, huh? Knew you were a whore, but spreading your legs for a teacher?”

“Pathetic,” Sibirsky sneers as Lesnoy, one of their lackeys, screams loud enough to make me jump.

“I’m not spreading my legs for anyone.” I shoot him a pointed look. Because while they don’t like me anymore, you’d never know from how they sniff around me when they’re separated.

I’m not short, but with these assholes towering over me, I definitely feel small. Smaller than I’d like.

Stepanov crowds me, forcing me to back up into the track that circles the basketball court. Before I know it, I’m stumbling into the stands.

As he looms over me, the knuckles of his left hand drag along the curve of my breast.

Mine snaps out to still him, but he croons, “You’re a whore. Just like your mother. A whore born and bred.”