“Fuck,” I growl, the word thick with alcohol and grief. “Fuck it all to hell.”
I sit up too fast. The room tilts. My hand closes around the empty beer bottle on the coffee table. Without thinking, I hurl it across the room with every ounce of pent-up fury I’ve been carrying since that blood-soaked afternoon.
The bottle explodes against the frame. Glass shatters. The photo cracks diagonally across Milo’s face. Shards rain down onto the floor, glittering like dangerous little stars in the low light.
The sound echoes through the empty apartment. Then silence again.
I stare at the ruined picture for a long moment, chest heaving. The rage drains as quickly as it came, leaving only a hollow ache behind.
My brothers are still gone. The photo is just paper and broken glass now. Nothing I do will bring them back.
I slump back onto the couch, the world spinning faster. The last thing I see before darkness claims me is the jagged crack running through that old memory.
Tomorrow I’ll be the pakhan again. Cold. Calculating. Unstoppable.
Tonight, I let the alcohol drag me under, a blackout to numb the pain.
Chapter 7
William
“Hey, watch it!” I holler, an Uber getting a little too close for comfort as I pedal.
The morning air is crisp and full of energy as I ride my old blue bicycle through the bustling city streets.
My backpack bounces gently against my shoulders, packed to the brim with notepads, heavy textbooks, a fresh set of colored pencils, and a handful of reliable ballpoint pens.
Tucked carefully in the front pocket is my little packed lunch—two PB&J sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, a banana, and a juice box. Nothing fancy, but it’ll keep me going through a long day of Brontë seminars.
The city is already alive around me: delivery trucks rumbling past, pedestrians hurrying with coffee cups in hand, the honk of impatient taxis.
It should be a perfectly normal morning. The kind I’ve had dozens of times since moving to the city. But my mind refuses to cooperate.
Every time I shift on the narrow bicycle seat, I feel it, like a phantom echo of last night. The redness on my bottom has faded to almost nothing… I checked in the mirror this morning, blushing furiously the whole time.
But theheatinside me hasn’t gone anywhere.
It simmers low in my belly, warm and insistent, every time I remember Kane’s strong hand coming down on my bare skin. The sharp sting. The controlled power. The way he’d bent me over that old oak table like I belonged to him in that moment.
“I haven’t dismissed you yet.”
The memory sends a fresh wave of heat rushing through me. I grip the handlebars tighter and pedal faster, trying to outrun the flush creeping up my neck. My jeans feel a little too snug today, and every bump in the road makes me acutely aware of the lingering tenderness.
I feel myself blush and almost go dizzy with shame.
What kind of boy lets a near-stranger spank him in a public library and then seriously considers going back for more?
This boy, apparently.
I shake my head, forcing my focus back to the street. Davey is waiting. Seminars. Notes. Academic life—the safe, predictable world I’ve worked so hard to build.
But no matter how hard I try, my thoughts keep drifting to dark eyes, a gravelly Russian accent, and the commanding way Kane had looked at me when he said I was a good boy for showing up on time.
By the time I lock my bike outside our favorite café across from the Uppington Building, my cheeks are warm from more than just the ride. I smooth down my sweater, adjust my backpack, and take a deep breath before heading inside.
The morning sun spills through the big windows of our favorite café, painting the wooden tables in warm golden light.
I’m already seated when Davey bursts in, his curly hair bouncing and a bright smile on his face. We’re across the road from the Uppington Building, and we’ve got a full day of Brontë seminars ahead—Jane Eyre,Wuthering Heights, the whole deliciously dramatic lineup. Normally I’d be buzzing with excitement, but today my mind is a whirlwind of yesterday’s events.
