Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 65871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 263(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 263(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
“You did no such thing,” I intervene. “You did what you were supposed to do. You went out and lived as she wanted you to.”
“Not as she wanted me to. She thought I was in college, but I dropped out.” Anya looks up at me. “Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?”
“I think she has already done so,” I say, ignoring the logical impossibility of post-mortem forgiveness. Sometimes people need to be reassured, and I want to make this tragedy more bearable.
“She really died,” Anya says. “I can’t believe she really died. What’s going to happen to this place? What am I going to do with all her things? What am I going to… do?”
I wrap my arms around her as she once again breaks into tears. I wish I could alleviate this pain, but it has to be felt, and there is nothing I can do to stop what has already happened.
CHAPTER 3
Anya
I still don’t know who the hell this guy really is, but he stays by my side through the worst days of my life. I know he must have paid for Mom’s funeral, though he never says anything about money. There’s food in the house, too. He’s taking care of absolutely everything that needs to be taken care of. He’s taking care of me.
He’s the first man to ever do that.
I can tell this place is beneath him. Everything he’s wearing, the way he carries himself, it all suggests money. A lot of money. And power. I feel poor in comparison. I feel as though I am very shabby, actually.
Grief has clouded my senses and my mind, but now it is time to discover who my furred, fanged knight really is.
“I can feel you lurking, Anya,” he says as I somewhat sneak around the lounge. “What are you thinking?”
“Are you a mind reader?”
“If I was, I wouldn’t have to ask the question,” he says. He is so gruff. When my eyes drop to his hands, I can’t help thinking about how those hands feel when they’re on me.
Every time I’m in this guy’s presence, I get wet. I try to deny that to myself, because I know very well that it’s wrong. I’m not supposed to lust after my mother’s friend. Especially when I really don’t know the first thing about him. I’ve been so focused on myself.
“At this point, I’m almost afraid to ask this question,” I say. “But…”
“Yes?”
“What’s your name?”
He smirks at me. “Alexei. My name is Alexei.”
“Nice name,” I say, not knowing what else to say. “I feel like I should have asked before, but…”
“Is okay,” he says, with the thick accent of his homeland. “You have had many other things to think about.”
“You were my mother’s friend?”
“Yes, we were very good friends in childhood.”
I look at him and try to imagine him and my mother as friends. I try to imagine them as children. It’s very hard. I can see them being friends as adults. My mom has—had—certain traits that I see in him. A certain coldness toward those who are not family, a strength, a pride, a power. It’s hard to imagine either one of them as being carefree or playful.
“Did you used to hang out together, and…”
“We suffered together.”
“Oh. Of course. That makes sense,” I say, inwardly cringing at having made the assumption of happiness. I’ve heard my mother’s stories, and I’ve read thirty percent of a Tolstoy book. I know Russians aren’t given to experiencing easy times. I guess, technically, I am Russian too. I’ve just never felt like it.
“Do you know who my dad was?”
I blurt the question, because it is the one secret my mom made sure to take to the grave, and I know there’s some chance it is actually the man in front of me, which would make my physical reactions to him entirely twisted.
“It is not me,” he says. “I can assure you of that.”
“Okay, good,” I sigh, relieved. “I mean, not that… I mean, if you were… I mean… you’d probably be a very good dad, I’m just really happy that you’re not my dad because…”
“Because every time you come near me, you want nothing more than for me to throw you down and fuck you.”
His words, suddenly crude, make me flush with embarrassment. He knows how I feel around him, I’m sure of it. He’s seen… things. I feel myself blushing bright fucking red, and aim for a retreat.
“Anya,” he says, making me turn.
“What?”
“Stay.”
He says the word firmly enough to make me comply. It’s like his tone hits a portion of my brain that simply shuts the parts down that make decisions for themselves. I know it’s an alpha trait, but the part of me that’s forever human really bristles at having that trick pulled on me. I know he’s going to leave soon. He’ll have to. He’ll have a life to live elsewhere, and then I am going to be here, alone, living without my mom, without school. I’m going to have to try to get a job at the grocery store or something and hope I can make ends meet. I don’t even know if the house is paid off yet. Do I have a mortgage? Are they going to take everything?