Page 40 of The Bratva Sinner

“Well?” Damien asks.

“Did you call him?”

He doesn’t need to answer. I know he did it because he thinks I’m making a mistake.

I’m not. My business. My war.

11

Lila

I wait up for him because I’m not too proud to apologize or admit when I’m wrong.

And I had been wrong earlier.

My fears and history colored my opinion. I jumped to conclusions. He’s been nothing but kind to me, and I owe him an apology.

I think about the horses he rescued. It isn’t cheap to feed and take care of them. And the stables are impressive. I can’t stop replaying the image of him cradling the woman. He’d been whispering to her. At the moment, I thought maybe he was threatening her. I knew better, but some part of me feared I would always look at men like Maksim and see my mother’s murder.

Guilty men don't carry women gently.

Or maybe they do.

He's done nothing to hurt me. I’ve been in his house and at his mercy for nearly two weeks, and the worst thing he's done is tell me the truth about what he is when I asked.

I accused him of beating a woman to death.

I need to apologize.

I hear the front door and then footsteps. Men’s voices. I can tell something is off. And then, I smell it.

Oh no.

Blood. Fresh.

I walk down the hall and into the foyer. I see him.

Maksim is favoring his right leg. Blood covers his hands and drips onto the pristine marble floor. His shirt is torn at the shoulder, and more blood seeps through the fabric.

"What happened?" The words come out before I can stop them.

The men flanking him turn to look at me with unkind eyes. One of them—I think his name is Viktor—glares like I've spit in his face. Another mutters a curse.

Damien stops in his tracks, his eyes landing on me with such anger that I take a step back. He lets loose a string of what I assume is Russian, the words harsh and biting even though I don't understand them. I can figure out they’re all blaming me for their boss’s injuries. Then he turns on his heel and walks away.

Maksim doesn't even acknowledge that I spoke. He limps painfully past me and toward the stairs.

That's when I see his leg. The left calf of his pants is soaked with blood.

"Maksim!”

He keeps walking.

I follow him up the stairs and down another hallway I haven't explored. He pushes through a door at the end—his bedroom, I realize—and leaves it open behind him. An invitation? Or does he just not care?

I hesitate at the threshold. This is his private space. I shouldn't be here.

But he's hurt.