Page 72 of Anton

“What?” Tears sting my eyes.

“It was either them or me.” He sounds almost absent, as though part of him has gone back there. “He would lock me in a room with one and refuse to open the door until I was the only one still breathing. He did it every week. I killed so many dogs, I eventually stopped counting.”

Anton…

A painful knot swells in my throat. I’m close to bursting into tears. But I can’t let him see me cry.

“They weren’t small dogs,” he continues, his fingertips still traveling along my back. “They were vicious and trained to kill.” A humorless breath leaves him. “Angrier than my father, even. But I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t afraid of anything.”

My chest burns, tears brimming as I picture him small, fighting off dogs tearing into his flesh.

Oh God.

“They stood no chance against me. I couldn’t let them win.” His eyes seem almost angry, daring me to hate him.

But I don’t see a killer. I see a little boy who survived what no child should ever have been forced to endure, and the heartbreak nearly kills me.

“How old were you?”

I fear the answer.

“It started when I was nine.” His thumb brushes the top of my hand. “Lasted years.”

Nine?

More emotions clog up my throat, so fast I choke on them.

I want to hold him. Tell him none of that should’ve happened to him. But I’m afraid any sign of pity will make him retreat. And after everything he’s survived, who can blame him?

“I’m sorry.” It’s the only thing I can manage around the lump in my throat.

A shadow crosses his face, so quick I almost miss it.

“I need to…” My voice cracks, and I hate it. “I need to run to the bathroom for a minute.”

His brows pull in. “Okay.”

I climb out of bed, grab the shirt I left on the floor, and tug it over my head before hurrying into the bathroom. The second the door shuts, I press my back against it and cover my mouth as a sob spills out.

All I can see is a child desperate for affection, desperate for someone to protect him. Instead, he was given cruelty.

And suddenly, I understand why he got Volchok. Maybe it was his way of making peace with a past that was never his fault to begin with. Maybe taking care of that dog is the closest thing to forgiveness Anton has ever allowed himself.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

ANTON

It’s been hours since I left her place, day bleeding into night, and I still can’t get her expression out of my head. When I told her about the dogs, she felt sorry for me. And when she ran into the bathroom and cried…

Fuck, I didn’t like it.

I don’t want her crying for anyone, especially not me. I’m not her blyatski little tragedy, some broken thing she thinks she can love hard enough to make better. I’m not her project. I don’t need fixing.

I shouldn’t have even told her anything, but I didn’t think it was a big deal. Now I realize to someone like her, it was.

The room feels colder tonight. Too quiet. Or maybe it’s always been this way and I’m only noticing because she isn’t here anymore.

AGE TEN