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)
That’s not the first time it’s happened.
Fuck. The black eye and the bruises on his side…?
Did Yaroslav come around last night as well?
“Have I or have I not told you to wait for permission to talk?”
“But it’d take a long time to mention everything I got punished for,” Yulian says, then stiffens.
For a hit.
He knows he’ll get hit and yet still runs his mouth?
What on earth is wrong with him?
His dad flexes his fist but doesn’t hit him again. “What’s with all the punishments? You have to do better than these lackluster results.”
“I’m the best at shooting in this camp.”
“That’s not enough. You have to be the best at everything, or strive to be. But it seems you’re trying to drag my name through the mud on purpose.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” He lifts a shoulder. “You said I had to be here, not that I should be the best. You need to specify what you want from me, you know.”
“I’m specifying that you need to do better. If you don’t want to get Alina in trouble, that is.”
Something curious overtakes Yulian’s body language. Something that didn’t happen when Yaroslav slapped him.
A tightening of shoulders, a slight lift of lips, almost as if in a snarl.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him angry. He’s always clowning around, so I thought he lacked the capacity to be angry.
“Don’t touch her.” His voice is deep and raw, as if his vocal cords are ripped.
“Then stop being a fucking disgrace. You’re my heir. Act like it, and stop glaring.”
“I’m just looking.”
Yaroslav drives his fist into Yulian’s face.
Thwack.
It’s stronger than the slap, and it sends Yulian flying against the wall. The moment he hits the ground, Yaroslav kicks him in the stomach.
“Fucking useless piece of shit. All you do is piss me off. Talentless, stupid, irrelevant motherfucker. Kirill sends a perfect son, and I have this fucking moron who only knows how to get injured.”
“You’re the one injuring me, though,” Yulian grunts, sounding out of breath even as he tries to protect his stomach with his hands. His lip has busted open, and blood drips on the wood, forming a small pool.
“Shut.” Kick. “The.” Kick. “Fuck.” Kick. “Up.”
Yulian curls into himself, and I reach for the knob.
Fire tears through me like a volcano cracking from the core. Truth is, my muscles have been tight since the first time he slapped Yulian.
I don’t give a fuck if I’m not supposed to be here. I don’t even understand why I’m this worked up. I seem to end up in this state every time Yulian is around, but it’s worse now.
My father never hit me, so this concept of beating children is foreign—so foreign, it makes my blood boil.
Or maybe it’s the name-calling.
Or the way Yaroslav spits out hurtful words without an ounce of respect for his son.
No wonder Yulian seems messed up.
Maybe that’s why I feel the urge to act—guilt. For judging him before knowing he’s been his father’s punching bag. Realizing maybe he talks too much because every time he opens his mouth at home, he gets hit for it.
Before I can step in, Yaroslav kicks him one last time and then steps back.
“This is my final warning, you worthless piece of shit. Mess this camp up and you’ll never see Alina again.”
He turns and leaves. Yulian struggles to sit upright, wincing as he runs his tongue over his cut lip, licking the blood away.
I take a step, then stop.
Because what the fuck would I say?
I’m sorry your father is an abusive piece of shit would make things worse, not better.
Someone like Yulian wouldn’t want pity. I wouldn’t either if I were him.
He stands, staring down at his feet, expressionless.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
Sixty.
He stays like that long enough that I find myself holding my breath, waiting for him to show a reaction.
I remain rooted in place, almost as if unable to move.
No—refusing to move.
He’s looking at the floor.
I’m looking at him.
4
YULIAN
Well, this is inconvenient.
Fuck me sideways.
This entire stupid camp is a waste of time and space and effort, but I have a feeling that if I’d voiced those genius thoughts, I would’ve walked out from under Dad’s shoe with a broken rib.
Not the first time that would’ve happened, but the memory of the pain makes me rein in that very logical thought of just fucking shit up.
“Got a smoke?” I lie on the floor and prop my feet on the side of the bed, where Cy’s lying with a thick book in hand and stares down at me like I’m a freak.
Okay, I am, but he doesn’t have to make it so obvious.
“Your dad said if anyone is caught supplying you with cigarettes, he’ll use the butts to burn their faces.”
“Oh no, the formidable Cy is scared of dear old Dad?”
“Shut your trap. Cigarettes aren’t good for you.”
“Yes, Mom!” I do a mock salute. “You got them or nah?”