Page 129 of Marrying My Ex's Brother
“Do you still care for him?” he asks.
For a moment, I see Dmitri in the hallway. His hand on my wrist. His beautiful face twisted with irritation because I had stopped obeying. His voice telling me Yaromir would use me.
Then I look at my husband. His injured hands. His hard eyes. The blood he spilled because Dmitri locked a door behind me.
“No,” I say. “I just don’t want any trouble with your dad.”
“My father?” he asks.
I realize too late that I’ve stepped somewhere I do not understand.
“Yes,” I say carefully. “Your father. He already confronted you tonight. Dmitri is his son too. I don’t want this to turn into something worse because of me.”
His jaw tightens. “I couldn’t care less,” he says. “And that man is not my father. He stopped being my father a long time ago.”
The room goes quiet.
I don’t speak. For once, I’m smart enough not to.
Yaromir turns away from me and walks to the sink. He braces both hands on the marble, lowering his head for a second. The movement is small, but it unsettles me more than his anger.
I’ve seen him controlled. Violent. Cold. Hungry.
I have not seen him tired. Not like this.
“When I was a boy,” he says, not looking at me, “I thought the Volkov name meant something. I thought if I waited longenough, behaved correctly enough, became useful enough, he would stop treating my mother like a shame he paid for.”
His voice is flat. That makes it worse.
“My mother believed him longer than I did. She always thought there would be a place for us eventually. A proper one. Not hidden apartments, not locked away like we were filth.”
I stand still. The ache between my thighs fades beneath something heavier.
“He visited when it suited him,” Yaromir continues. “Brought gifts. Made promises. Left before morning. She kept forgiving him because she remembered who he was before he became Kirill Volkov.” He says the name like it tastes bitter.
I think of Dmitri. His apologies. His gifts. His way of making me grateful for scraps.
The comparison makes my stomach twist.
“What happened to her?” I ask quietly.
Yaromir is silent for a moment.
Then he says, “She got sick.”
My throat tightens.
“Not suddenly. Enough time for him to come. Enough time for him to move her to better doctors. Enough time for him to do one decent thing.” He looks at me through the mirror. “He did not.”
I can’t breathe for a second. “Why?”
“Because bringing her into the light would have embarrassed the legitimate family.”
He turns from the sink. His eyes are dry, but there’s something in them that makes me want to look away and stay looking at the same time.
“I didn’t know,” I whisper.
“No. Why would you?”
