Total pages in book: 148
Estimated words: 147734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
I want to erase his burden but also make sure his dad doesn’t hurt him again.
Yaroslav sent that picture to Dad, so he knows about us now. Does that mean he went after Yulian or something?
My pulse slams as a vibration rattles through my pocket. I snatch out my phone, my breath catching—only for my hope to crash when I don’t find Yulian’s name, just an unknown number.
“I need to take this,” I tell Mom and Dad, then stand up. “Hello.”
“It’s Cyrus.”
My jaw grinds, but I remain still. “Can I help you?”
“Yaroslav knows about you. There was a picture of you two kissing in public like suicidal idiots.”
“Is there a point you’ll be reaching soon, Cyrus?”
“I want you to listen to me carefully, Vaughn. Yaroslav found out about Yulian’s sexual preferences a long time ago. When he was sixteen, to be precise. Caught him kissing a guy in his room. Do you know what happened then?”
I swallow, and my parents watch me with frowns. “What?”
“He killed that guy right in front of Yulian, then proceeded to break both of Yulian’s legs. He told him it was better for him to become a cripple rather than sullying his name. He clearly warned that if Yulian didn’t stay away from—and I quote—‘that sick, disgusting, depraved, abnormal shit,’ he’d not only marry Alina off to the highest bidder, but he’d also castrate and kill Yulian because no son of his would be less than a man.”
My grip on the phone is so tight, I’m shocked it doesn’t snap in half. My mouth is parched, every swallow as rough as sandpaper. I always knew Yaroslav was a monster, but not this kind. Now I understand what Yulian meant when he told me, “You’re privileged to have your mom and dad, Mishka.” He was right. The difference between how my parents reacted to my sexuality and how his did is stark and terrifying.
“You know, I’ve always known you’d be trouble since that summer camp,” Cyrus continues. “Yaroslav has him now, to torture or kill him, and it’s all because of you. You abandoned him in that cave and went on to live your merry life with Danika while he suffered the consequences, and it’s happening again now.” He takes a sharp breath. “Fix it, Vaughn. Prove me wrong for once in your life, and go the extra mile for him.”
32
YULIAN
Cold hits me with a sharp, merciless impact.
I gasp, sputtering as icy water drenches my face, soaking through my clothes, trickling down my spine and into my bones.
For a moment, I don’t know where I am.
Who am I?
Then the fragments of memories slide in. First, the pain of Vaughn’s rejection, then the kidnapping, and finally, the physical ache sets in.
My neck is stiff, my jaw throbs, and my wrists burn from the way they’re bound behind me. The pressure around my ankles tells me they’re tied down, too, forced against the legs of the chair I’m strapped to. It creaks beneath me whenever I breathe too hard. Or maybe that’s me creaking. Difficult to tell with the overload of bullshit.
I lift my head slowly, every movement sparking discomfort in new places—my ribs, my shoulders, my cheekbone. There’s something metallic in my mouth. I spit. It’s blood. Probably mine. But might not be. I think I chewed on someone’s skin when I was transported like a rabid dog.
Oh, right. I bit his fucking ear off as he was carrying me to the plane, and he screamed like a pig. But I didn’t get to witness his reaction in full before someone knocked me out again.
Good times.
The room comes into slow focus.
I’ve been here before, in the basement. The stone walls are stained with mold and splashes of dried blood that haven’t been cleaned off. A single bulb swings above me, flickering like it’s debating whether or not to stay on, casting fractured shadows across a rusted table lined with tools that my dear papa uses on his enemies—and his sons. Yes, plural. My brothers face his wrath as well when they don’t meet his grandiose expectations.
And…there he is.
Yaroslav Dimitriev is leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, his sleeves rolled up. His face is calm, as if this is just another business meeting.
He’s watching me like he’s waiting for something. Like this is the moment he’s been anticipating.
“Finally awake,” he says, his voice even. Almost casual.
My tongue feels like sandpaper, but I manage to smirk. It cracks my lower lip open, and warm blood trickles into my mouth. “Didn’t realize we were having father-son bonding time. Question. Did you bring cards?”
He doesn’t laugh. He never does. Not even when I was young. He’s never once shown me a soft side, or that he cares about me even a little.
My father picks up a pair of brown leather gloves and slides them on like he’s getting ready for a procedure.