Page 26 of The Bratva Sinner

It’s been three days, and I’m healing. I’m still covered in deep purple bruises but I feel more like myself. The cut on my temple itches, but it’s staying closed. I’ll have another scar. The cut on the back of my head is still gnarly, with a gross scab. I made the mistake of brushing over it once.

The outside is getting better, but the inside, not so much. I can feel that my heart is shattered, but I don’t think about it. Survival mode is all I can manage right now.

I focus on eating. Showering. Sleeping. I’ve been so weak that I’ve barely been able to stay awake more than a couple of hours at a time.

When Cinder showed me my new room, not the one I’d been in at first, the closet was filled with new clothes. The price tags still attached made my head spin. One pair of jeans was worth more than our trailer. I couldn’t resist playing dress-up in the middle of the night. Just once. I don’t think I’ve ever had new clothes. I always got donated stuff from families at the ranch who pitiedus. Old jeans with the knees ripped out and stained T-shirts were pretty much all I had.

Now, I’m sitting by the pool in my usual spot, wearing a bathing suit under a pair of shorts and a tank top. I thought about swimming. Today is the first day I’ve felt strong enough to consider it.

The pool is obscene. I grew up in a trailer with a garden hose and a plastic tub that we used in summer. This pool is turquoise and long enough to do laps. Huge white pots overflowing with flowers line the edge, carefully tended by someone. I don't know who. I haven't figured out all the people in this house yet. There are more of them than I thought. Guards for sure, but I’ve also noticed a few women. I assume they are staff, but some don’t look like any housekeeper or cook I’ve seen on TV.

At least that’s what I tell myself.

I've had three days and very little to do but observe.

I've walked the ground floor twice without anyone stopping me. The men stationed at the gates watch the perimeter, not me. Cinder checks in twice a day but doesn't hover. It's a strange kind of captivity, and I’m definitely a captive. I’m not behind a locked door, and there are no visible shackles or bars on the windows, but I feel them.

I know what's outside the fence. I'm not in a hurry to test it again.

I hear Maksim talking to one of the guards. I’m immediately alert. The man has a presence I haven’t quite figured out. I’m not afraid of him, but I’m leery. After everything, I’d be a fool not to be a little suspicious of his kindness.

He walks into the backyard wearing swim shorts and nothing else. He's leaner than some of the guards who roam around here, but there's nothing soft about him. The ink on his ribs and left shoulder catches my eye. There’s more ink on the back of his biceps and his left calf.

I’ve always liked tattoos. Not the head-to-toe biker look my mother seemed to appreciate. His are… tasteful. Exciting. Very alpha.

He drops a towel on the chair next to mine, and my heart starts beating a little too fast. We haven’t spent any time together since he carried me in his arms. He’s been around. Offers coffee from the pot in the morning before he leaves. Around, but never really in my space.

He walks to the edge of the pool and dives in. I can’t stop staring. I’ve never seen anyone use the pool. I assumed it was more of something to look at. I never expected to see him so… free.

He swims like a man without a care in the world. He goes end-to-end twice and then flips over onto his back and floats with his face up to the sky, arms out, completely still.

I watch him despite my best efforts not to.

He's at ease in a way I haven't seen him. The few times we’ve spent around each other, he’s always managing the situation. This is different. This is him just being alive.

I look away from his hard, tanned body.

Eventually, he pulls himself out of the pool in one easy move and drops onto the chair next to mine, reaching for his towel. Water runs off him and darkens the concrete.

"You look better," he says.

"I feel better."

"Good." He runs the towel over his hair. "You should eat more."

"I eat plenty."

"Cinder said you didn’t eat much at dinner last night.”

"Cinder reports to you about how much I eat?"

"Cinder reports to me about everything. It's her job." He doesn't say it like it's a threat. He settles back in the chair and closes his eyes against the sun. "But you’re healing. You look rested.”

I look at him for a moment. His profile in the sun. The way he's completely relaxed talking about my health. Has anyone cared about whether I ate or slept? I know Mama tried, but she had her own problems and often chose to dull those worries with a bottle of three-dollar wine.

"You're still here," I say.

"It's my house."