Page 11 of The Brat: Prequel

A part of me never wants to climb out of the car. Another part wishes I were older. That...

But no.

By the time I’m eighteen, he’ll be married and probably have kids—that’s the Bratva way.

And god, that idea hurts.

When he marries and has children, his protection will extend to them. Not to me. And I’ll lose him. Forever.

Gnawing on the inside of my cheek, I remind myself that this is a teenage crush…

Woodenly, I repeat, “Do vstrechi, Maxim.”

He watches as I climb out of the SUV. When I shut the door, he lowers the window. “You have the chance to be more than just a wife and mother, Victoria. I hope you don’t squander it.”

I blink at him in surprise, but don’t get a chance to reply—he pulls out of the parking space before I can.

Eyes glued to the taillights, I shove my hands into my pockets. It’s cold out. Why am I only noticing now? Why is the sky darker? Why are the shadows creeping up and⁠—

“Victoria?”

It’s a soft prompt. I glance at Shay, who stares back at me worriedly.

“Are you scared?”

“What? No.” I scowl at him. “Why would I be scared? It’s only Maxim.”

“‘Only Maxim’ she says,” he mocks. “You need therapy, Victoria, I swear.”

“We weren’t all raised as artistic nomads,” I reply, voice hoarse.

Hooking my arm through his, I gently encourage him to continue on our journey to the library. If he prods the wound too deeply, I’m not sure I won’t start bleeding out in the middle of the street.

The humming of a motor catches my attention, and when I look over my shoulder, I notice another SUV has taken Maxim’s place. It’s idling. Waiting for me to walk by.

Through the windshield, I encounter a face I recognize—Misha.

Maxim’s best friend.

So, he’s still guarding me... still protecting me.

Color returns to my cheeks. The sky lightens. The shadows recede.

Do vstrechi, indeed.

FOUR

MAX, I NEED YOU

“Dodgeball? What are we, eight?”

Karine Krasnodarsky shrugs. “I don’t hate dodgeball. Why you hating on dodgeball?”

“Because we’re sixteen!”

“What should sixteen-year-olds be doing?” Karine studies her manicure—that’s how interested she is in our conversation.

“Not this. Track? I don’t know. Give me anything but dodgeball. I hate this goddamn school and this gym uniform they make us wear. Blyad.”