Page 25 of Deadly Knight (The Bratva’s Elite #2)

“Let’s play, boys.”

The bald one undoes his pants, and that’s when I stop looking up.

The mattress dips as the man kneels between my legs.

Hot hands brand my inner thigh.

Then there’s something else touching between my thighs.

Thrust.

Bald One.

Skinny One.

Bodybuilder One.

Greasy One.

They all break me.

The vision shifts, so perhaps I’m not as broken as assumed. Away from the horrors, another memory, a more pleasant one, fills my mind.

Dimitri is slow entering me, and the pain is fleeting. His hand tightens around mine, his simple hold saying what he hasn’t.

“You’re okay, moya dusha . You’re doing so well.” Kisses pepper along my jawline. “You’re so fucking perfect, Katya. How am I this lucky?”

Once he’s fully seated, he lets me adjust to the feel of him inside me for the first time. First time ever for me, and I was so nervous leading up to this after friends said how unprepared they were.

But Dimitri’s not like their boyfriends.

He prepared me with his tongue by bringing me through two orgasms, ensuring I was slick enough for him to slip inside easier.

The inevitable pain, the stretch, the breaking of my hymen was quick before it passed, and now, satisfaction ripples through my body.

My eyes open, unclenching—I hadn’t realized they shut—and focus on him.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not anymore.” I shift my hips, feeling his cock hit another part of me, one that causes stars to take over the edges of my vision. Oh. Friends claimed it was boring and unexciting, but I’m getting the sense it won’t be like that with him. “Sensitive.”

Dimitri tightens his hold on my hand. “Squeeze back if it becomes too much. Don’t let me hurt you, Katya.”

I rock my hips, testing both our restraints, feeling more and more confident when his low, responding groan echoes through my ear. “I trust you, Dimitri.” Skating my lips along his jaw, I reach his ear and whisper, “I’m yours.”

And then he makes me his in the only way he hasn’t yet before.

When I come, it’s with his name on my tongue.

“Dimitri.”

I shoot up in bed, my shirt clinging to my chest with sweat, and my nails jab into my skin.

At the initial sting of pain, my mind is able to recall the words I created with the therapist I had during university to help get me away from the old self-harming tendencies—that was my focus during sessions with her.

Safe. Not real. Safe. Not real.

The nails in my arm—real.

The bed beneath me—real.

The room around me—real.

I’m safe.

The mantra of what I am and am not. Of what I feel. Finished with the reassuring reminder of what I am.

Breaths heavy, I scan the room, landing on my nightstand to determine what time it is.

3 a.m.

Shakily, I swing my legs to the side and stand from bed, heading to the bathroom. Anything to get away from my bed, sleep, and the past that has crept up.

Dreaming—the memory—of that night isn’t a new occurrence.

They happened nightly at first, but now are only occasional.

It’s them who so often knock a few levels off my wall, forcing me closer to the past. It should concern me when it does happen, but years of practice have allowed me to be able to end that dream and shift to something more pleasant.

Usually it’s work related, an event with Nora recently attended, or time spent with my parents, but never him . Even my brain has enough sense to protect me from that heartache.

Rubbing my hands on my face, I skip the bathroom to instead head for the kitchen for a glass of water.

I haven’t dreamed of Dimitri in a while, and that’s the worrisome part.

While it might not be recommended by therapists, myself included, I tucked away the positive memories of him in a box and shoved it to the back of my mind; well behind my mental wall, bricked up safely away.

I had to, to survive my new life without hopping on a plane and returning, begging him to take me back.

Apologizing for being an idiot, that I am good enough, that we’ll work no matter what his family thinks about me.

For the first couple years, I pictured that scenario often, wondering if I made the best decision. After all, what his father did wasn’t his fault. I’ve debated visiting Moscow, to peek in on him and see what’s become of him.

Common sense kept me grounded. I left for a reason and couldn’t possibly risk returning, creating the potential of undoing years and years of work.

Who he surrounds himself with, his personal situation, haven’t changed.

Surely his father and uncle are still pulling the strings, and if so, it’s a life I want no part of.

I make it to the kitchen, filling a glass of water and chugging it, and then have another glass, knowing I’ll regret this in a few hours when needing to pee, but not finding it in me to care. It takes three glasses before sleep becomes possible again.

It doesn’t take a university degree to figure out why I dreamed of Dimitri tonight, of all times, after not having done so in so long—after spending the evening with Caleb, who apparently reminds me just enough of him to trigger these thoughts.

Back in bed, I stretch on my stomach and reach for the curtain hanging beside me, parting it a few inches to peek out of the floor-length windows towards the street below. Toronto doesn’t sleep, so even in the middle of the night, a decent number of cars pass and a few pedestrians are walking.

Above, the crescent moon glows. I’ve always found peace in using it to relax me back to sleep.

Especially in the beginning, I’d stare for hours, questioning how such a beautiful aspect of nature looks down upon the ugliness of the world.

It’s appropriate that the very thing symbolizing the passing of time has been a coping mechanism for the years since that night.

So often, despite the seven-hour time difference between Toronto and Moscow, I’d pretend the moon was present in both places at the same time, only so I could imagine him doing the same. Eventually, I learned to stop, because it only tormented me with unknowns and what-ifs.

For the first time in a while, I allow myself to wonder again—and invent answers.

What kind of man has he become? A hardened criminal like those he surrounds himself with? Did he remain a Bratva soldier, finally becoming what his father dreamed for him? Surely he wouldn’t leave after everything, probably doing exactly as I asked him to and forgetting me.

Is he with anyone? Probably. The mob prioritizes continuing bloodlines, so he’s likely married to a woman worthy of being by his side. Who’ll understand the demands of his life. Who is respected enough by his father that he won’t send rapists after her.

Does he have kids? Back then, his uncle was the Bratva’s leader, but his only child was a girl, which Dimitri said goes against all their ancient rules.

If his uncle never ended up having a son, Dimitri is the heir, which shifts the line of leadership to him.

If he doesn’t have a child yet, there likely will be in years to come.

Fuck, the thought of all that—other than this imaginary woman not being a target too—burns parts of me long dead. Resurrecting them just to die all over again. The idea of him moving on is…

…is right , I finally concede. It’s what should happen, and nothing less than what I’ve been doing, or trying to do.

And then another question slips in, this one as probable as the others but also strikes like a brand: Is he alive?

With a tight throat making me unable and unwilling to search for the answer in the glowing rock above, the curtain falls shut.

The Bratva is dangerous. He never hid the fact he is skilled with a weapon and in combat, but eventually strength and weapons can only do so much. People slip up. Maybe by accident, maybe in revenge.

No , I decide. He’s alive. He must be. I’d feel it deep down if he wasn’t. Would know in the depths of my soul that he’s gone. My heart would know when a piece of it shattered beyond repair, his soul heading to the afterlife, forever out of my reach.

Fuck these thoughts. I roll over, tucking my head below the blanket and bringing my legs up as I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to sleep again.

It takes me an hour to pass out again, and when I do, I dream of a dark-haired boy—now a man—standing guard over me, ensuring none of the world’s evil the moon witnesses ever touches me again.

“I have something else to talk about today,” I rush to say to Ava before she can start our Sunday session.

Yesterday was long . After waking the morning after my nightmare, I spent Saturday wandering my apartment trying to forget the dream and stay busy. Both, I failed at.

“Alright.” She settles into the oversized chair across from me, dragging her notepad closer. “Whenever you’re ready.”

I shift on the couch, keeping the fidget toy close by, rolling the stretchy rubber ball to distract myself from scratching at my arms. More often than not when addressing the past, I slip into old self-harm tendencies, so Ava’s recommended working my feelings into the innocent items she keeps in a basket beside the couch.

“Friday evening, I went out with Nora to a magic show. Another staff member and her husband also had tickets, so Nora invited them to attend with us. Then she invited the new guy, Caleb. I’ve seen him around the building but never spoke to him until then, and well…

he’s nice. Charming. Loaned me his sweater when I was cold, and then walked me home afterwards. ”

Her head ticks to the side. “Willingly, I hope. He asked, you accepted?”

“Pretty much, though after a mental battle of wills I had with myself. Had to remind myself that not everyone has a hidden past.”

“That is true.”

“It was nice talking to him,” I admit with a small smile that has me gripping the ball tighter. “But he reminds me of someone. Something about his appearance, the way he looks at me…right down to my reaction to him.”

Nora presses her lips together and jots a quick note. “Someone…?” she prompts, her voice trailing at the end.

She knows whom I’m talking about. I know whom I’m talking about. We both do, but she’s waiting on me to put it out into the air.

“Dimitri.” There. I said it. In session, I force open the cracks in my wall since letting the past in during these controlled times and environment is the only acceptable time to do so. After the appointment, I patch it up and carry on.

Her eyes flash up, brows meeting the hairline of her updo. “Is this good or bad?”

She’s asking how I feel about it, prompting me to fill in the blanks rather than drawing her own conclusions. It’s a counselling trick to encourage the client to open up without being led on to reply a certain way.

“That’s my question for you. It’s an ‘I don’t know what to think or how to feel.

’ The reminder terrifies me. Feels like it’s dragged a box from my closet and cut it open, and all my memories are escaping.

” I pause, hesitating about the next part.

“Then last night, I had the dream again.” She knows which dream; I’ve spoken about it enough.

“Hm. Did you pull yourself out?”

“Yes, but not with any of my usual tricks. Instead, that night, I dreamed of him . A memory of the first time we had sex.”

Another note. “You haven’t recorded a dream of him in over a year.”

That’s concerning are the words she doesn’t add.

“Exactly. Like Caleb reminded me of him enough to dredge it all back up. It might only be a one-off thing.” I hope. “Maybe last night was a bad day, but I’m worried.”

“Because…”

“Because Caleb is nice and normal, and I like him. As much as you can like a person after a day, anyway. I’m not saying he’s interested in me, but if he is, memories of Dimitri shouldn’t interrupt what could be. It isn’t fair.”

Sympathy flashes across her expression and, given the number of years I’ve been seeing Ava, I know it’s not fake.

“I want you to ask yourself if you can separate Caleb from Dimitri, or will you always compare the two? Maybe even like parts of Caleb because they remind you of Dimitri?”

Can I? Yes. Without a doubt. Caleb and Dimitri are nothing alike.

One’s nice, while the other torments my soul in every delicious way.

One surrounds himself with kids, the other in an ancient organization.

Caleb only reminds me of Dimitri in appearance, but he’s his own person. In many ways, the complete opposite.

Except the opposite isn’t what you crave, the old and unwelcome voices slip in. I ignore them.

“I think so.”

I hope so.

I want to.

Ava’s face is impressively blank, which causes me to wonder what’s in her head.

Instead of asking, my hand grips the ball again, rolling it between my palms. She watches me, her eyes narrowing on my arms slightly.

I expect her question before it comes, and it’s without judgement she murmurs, “You’ve been harming yourself more than usual lately. ”

“I try not to,” I whisper, shame settling heavier on my shoulders.

“I know. What you’ve gone through, what you continue to—it’s no light thing, Katya. Therefore, it’s normal to relapse occasionally. Life wouldn’t be challenging if we only ever moved on. You know as well as anyone, trauma doesn’t work that way.”

My fingers trace over the red and white scars, both old and new. “I’m worried being around Caleb will have me doing this more often, if he really is reminding me of the past.”

“Or he’s someone to let in. Another level on your wall. Someone to help you forward, to be there when things get difficult.”

“Maybe…” The thought of another person being that —being another version of Ava in my everyday life—should be welcoming, albeit scary. Instead, it makes me want to curl up and never speak to him again. Like he’s replacing something—someone—irreplaceable.

“You don’t have to decide anything about Caleb today. Take your time. Get to know him if you want. Ignore him if you want. Maybe take the week to consider it. Begin exploring your thoughts without being rushed. If you come up with an answer soon, great, but if you don’t, do not stress.”

“I’ll do that,” I agree, thankful she instantly removes the suddenness of needing all the answers.

Sometimes, other people’s advice hits better than my own ideas.