Page 76 of Bratva Prisoner

“Yes?”

“Are you happy here?”

She turns back to face me, scrunching her nose. “What kind of question is that?”

“Are you happy?” I repeat.

“I’m… It’s more nuanced than that, Maksim.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer I have right now.”

She disappears before I can press her any more, leaving me alone with my whiskey and the growing certainty that I’m losing her, whether I understand why or not.

The next couple of days pass much the same way. Alyssa continues to avoid me whenever possible, and I throw myself into work at the docks to keep from going insane. But even managing shipping schedules and coordinating security can’t distract me from the fact that she’s slipping away.

When I come home Thursday evening to find her having what appears to be a heated phone conversation in the garden, my already frayed patience finally snaps.

“No, I told you I need more time,” she’s saying as I approach. “A week isn’t enough to… What the hell do you mean you don’t care?”

She notices me coming and immediately ends the call before shoving her phone into her pocket.

“Who was that?” I ask without preamble.

She rubs the back of her neck and replies, “Nobody important.”

“Try again.”

“It’s none of your business, Maksim.”

“Everything about you is my business when you’re living under my roof.”

“Excuse me?” Her tone turns arctic, and I flinch at the sound. “I wasn’t aware I needed permission to take phone calls.”

“Who. Was. It?”

“I don’t have to answer that,” she replies with a scoff.

“The hell you don’t.”

Color floods her cheeks as her temper rises. “What gives you the right to interrogate me about my private conversations?”

“Someone tried to kill you two months ago,” I remind her. “I’m looking out for you.”

“So you’re going to monitor my communications now? Screen my calls? Decide who I can and can’t talk to?”

“If that’s what it takes to keep you safe, yes.”

She stares at me like I’ve grown a second head and throws her hands in the air. “Listen to yourself. You sound exactly like Troy.”

The comparison hits me right in the chest, and I take a step back, raising my hands out in front of me. “That’s not… I’m not trying to control you.”

“Then what would you call this?” she asks, gesturing between us.

“Protecting you.”

“From phone calls? From conversations you don’t get to overhear? That’s not protection, Maksim. That’s control.”