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“Yes.”
“Are you two . . . in a relationship?”
“No.”
“I don’t understand.”
I glance at my friend. His jaw is clenched tight and there is a concern in his eyes. At sixty-five, Yuri is the oldest in the Bratva’s inner circle. He has become a father figure to the soldiers who work under him, but he’s also fiercely protective of the rest of the Bratva’s men, regardless of their position. I’ve always found it strange, how he can care so greatly about the guys who aren’t his family, while there are people in the world who don’t give a fuck about their own flesh and blood.
“Have you ever met someone who feels like they are a missing piece of you?” I ask. “A piece you didn’t even know you were missing until they stumbled into your life?”
“No, not really. You think that girl is yours?”
“I’ve known her for a week.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know. But it doesn’t really matter. She’ll be leaving soon, anyway.” I grab the door handle. “I’m coming back to work as soon as she does.”
“Maybe she won’t want to leave.”
“Yeah, sure,” I say and exit the car.
Chapter 7
I am standing in the middle of the shower stall, staring at the two bottles on the corner shelf. The black one is the bodywash for men I’ve been using since I got here. It has a woodsy scent with a hint of citrus and sage. It was there from the start, and it was the only one. Now, there is a different shower gel next to it. A pink bottle with flowers on it. Pasha must have brought and left it here for me. I take a deep breath and reach for it, but the instant my fingers come close to the bottle, anxiety rises within my chest. I look back at the black bottle and move my hand to it. The anxiety intensifies. I let my hand fall. I spend more than fifteen minutes watching the stupid soap bottles and gritting my teeth to the point of my jaw hurting. I finally grab both and send them flying across the bathroom, where they hit the wall and fall to the floor.
A bang sounds on the door. “Asya!”
I lean my back against the tiled wall as my breath comes in shallow bursts. This is the first time I’ve tried to take a shower without Pasha being in the bathroom with me. I felt so proud of myself earlier when I told him he didn’t have to come in with me. He smiled a little and said he would stay on the other side of the door just in case.
“Asya?” Another bang. “I’m coming in!”
The door bursts open and Pasha rushes in, looking around himself. His eyes fall to the bottles on the floor, and then his gaze snaps to me. His metallic gray depths, not light blue as I originally thought, scan me from head to toe—questioning, assessing . . . worried. Their intensity draws me in, grounding me in a way that eases my anxiety.
“I couldn’t choose which fucking bodywash to use,” I say and close my eyes, feeling completely defeated.
“Shit,” Pasha mumbles. A few seconds later, his rough palm caresses my cheek. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s not your fault I’m a basket case.” I sigh.
“You’re not a basket case, mishka.”
“Yeah, sure.” I snort. “You should take me to the nearest mental hospital and leave me there.”
“Asya, look at me.”
I open my eyes to find him standing in front of me, his hand still on my cheek, and the other on the wall next to my head.
“It will get better,” he says. “I promise.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. You’re a fighter. It’ll take time, but you will get better. Come on, let’s get you washed up. Okay?”
I nod reluctantly.
“Good. I’ll go get that shower gel.”
