Page 9 of Deadly Knight (The Bratva’s Elite #2)

Doctors, nurses, police officers, and psychologists. It’s a steady stream of constant visitors for three days straight with the goal of making me “better.”

Is that even possible? None of them keep the nightmares away.

None of them stop the monsters from climbing beneath the bed and into my mind, forcing me to relive every instance.

Every thrust as they took what wasn’t theirs.

Every panting breath blown over my face.

None of the medications the nurses distribute or the “conversations” from the psychologist help prevent the night terrors that jerk me awake hour after hour, screaming until my throat is burning and my hand scratches at my arm to remind myself of where I am. Where I’m not .

Doctors describe them as being panic attacks, though it seems too basic a description for the memories and their effects. I always believed panic attacks occur when a person is too anxious, and I’m not anxious at all.

Simply destroyed.

By the third day, the medical staff are ready to discharge me, but the psychologist insists otherwise.

She’s been trying to suggest coping methods I can use at home, which I don’t really pay attention to, while encouraging me to not bottle anything up.

To speak with her now, another professional afterwards, my parents, and even Dimitri.

I wonder if the psychologist has spoken to him or if they’ve just sent him on his way after seeing he was physically unharmed. Does the doctor not realize a person can be broken in multiple ways? The thought makes me glare at her, because Dimitri should be getting help too.

For an hour straight, between three different visits, I’m told multiple discharge plans that only leave me on edge with the lack of answers.

Mama taps my cheek right over the spot where my jaw is tightest. “It’d be wise to listen to the psychologist, Katya, and stay for a few more nights. You continue to wake frequently. Stay at least until the nightmares clear up.”

Her eyes flick to my reddened arms, which the psychologist is titling a form of self-harm. She won’t listen when I explain it’s only me grounding myself through the nightmares.

I stare at Mama. She didn’t say anything wrong, but her view is too narrow for my reality. The memories won’t go away overnight. Weeks, months, maybe even years. Hell, they might never, so staying here changes nothing.

“I need to feel normal again. Staying in here is a constant reminder.” A half-truth. The reminder won’t disappear at home, but at least there, I won’t be chained to a hospital bed with staff hovering.

Papa chimes in from the recliner in the corner, “She’s right. Being home would be good for her.”

“Besides, legally, they can’t keep me.”

And that’s how, later that evening, I’m being walked to my parents’ car, Mama clutching my hand and Papa on my other side. I feel safe between them. Safer than I have in days, despite being inside a building with many staff between me and the front doors, where my villains could return.

Villain s . I scoff. There’s not multiple. Four men might have been the reason behind my horrors, but it was one man in particular who designed the entire thing.

It’s the one fact I couldn’t admit to the police. Couldn’t tell my parents. Couldn’t tell anyone.

Because doing so addresses something I’m not ready to accept yet: Ivan has always been right.

I’m not meant for Dimitri’s world.

Dimitri needs a strong woman to make it through any challenge either the Bratva or he is faced with.

This situation has proven that isn’t me.

Diary.

No Dear. Not sure anything can ever be “dear” again. How can it be when the world feels different now?

When I feel so different?

I’m grateful you’re here. This tattered notebook to hide all my thoughts. You’re here when I need you most. When the bad overwhelms the good.

Well…it’s bad. I think I’m now called a victim. A statistic . That one person on the news others feel sad for when hearing the story of what went down. The ones that have people questioning how another human could do such a thing.

I once asked the same thing after watching the news a few months ago with Mama and Papa.

The reporter recounted a killing from the night prior, which police believed at the time was a random attack.

Someone broke into a family home and stabbed the parents, but mercifully, their six-year-old daughter was away at her grandparents’ house.

Police tracked down the murderer but never learned his reason for attacking.

I asked then why he’d do such a thing. What would have happened if the child was home? Something I didn’t want to consider.

Now, I wonder if it was random at all. Is anything random? The attack on me felt random. Four men having “fun”. “Let’s play, boys” is what one said, like it was a game.

No. It wasn’t random. That was proved when he whispered in my ear. It was planned. It was intended to torture me in such ways I removed myself from his life.

A knock on my bedroom door jerks me back into life so quickly, my pen slips from my hand. Instinctively, I slam the red leather cover of my journal shut as my door parts a few inches, and Mama’s face peers inside.

“Hey,” she murmurs, slowly stepping inside. She’s gripping a tray, her knuckles a bit whiter than a visit to her daughter should normally call for, but she’s being cautious around me. She’s been like this since I got discharged from the hospital yesterday. “Brought you tea.”

It’s always tea. Or a snack. Never a meal because I barely finish the snacks. A bite of a sandwich here. A few sips of soup there. Food tastes dryer than usual. Unexciting.

Like everything else.

I force my mouth into a meager smile, trying to reassure her even if it’s an utter lie. “Thanks.”

Her expression softens, and she walks the tray to my bedside table, resting it down. Her eyes track where I’m holding on to the journal, my hand tight around my secrets.

“How do you feel?”

I shrug, not sure I can accurately answer, and I don’t want to completely lie to my parents. I owe them that much, so a shrug is the most truth I’m able to handle.

Mama’s lips fold in the corners. My answer isn’t what she wants, but it could be worse. “Well,” she says after a beat, “are you up for a visitor?”

I instinctively stroke the ribbon around my wrist. The only piece of me that survived the attack. What the nurses never took off my body, and my parents allowed me to keep, understanding what it means to me. Whom it represents.

The very who asking to visit. The one I’ve spent days thinking about and, at the same time, trying to push from my mind altogether.

Guilt has me wanting to see him because none of this was his fault, but like I knew in the hospital, I’m not ready for us, two changed people, to come face-to-face with one another so soon after.

“I-I can’t. Not yet.”

Mama gives me an understanding look. “At some point, you’ll need to. He’s suffering as well, dorogoy .” Dear.

“I know. I will. I want to.”

“But not now,” she finishes, reaching to cup my cheek. “I’ll let him know now isn’t the best time. Whenever you’re ready, and not a moment before then.”

I press my hand on top of hers as a silent thanks before releasing her to leave. She goes, shutting my door, and I pick my pen back up, ignoring the guilt that she’s only going downstairs to shoo him away.

It’s not fair. I love him too much to hurt him. But what happened to me also wasn’t fair, and I shouldn’t have to fear Ivan making a repeat happen in the future.

What’s that saying? Life isn’t fair. Guess it’s true.

Mama interrupted to give me more food we both know I won’t eat and to tell me he’s downstairs, asking for me. I can’t because I have to finish writing this. (Yes, this is an excuse you and I both know is a lie.)

As I was saying, nothing is random. More so, maybe I should have seen this coming.

There. I said it.

Meeting Dimitri Volkov changed my life. Suddenly the mob was real, and I made myself a willing part of that world.

In some ways, it was cool. Not that I’ve ever done any of the drugs myself, but I can respect the business behind it.

When he went off training or away on jobs for days at a time, other than missing him, I understood.

That was his world and I had mine, and for us to be together, we needed a balance.

For years, I’ve been working on that balance through the anxiety that one day all my work won’t matter because life as an adult is much more complicated.

Suddenly all my work may become teenage fantasies.

From the moment I met Ivan Volkov, Dimitri’s papa, he never once hid his dislike for me.

After a lot of nagging, Dimitri finally admitted the truth: His father sees me and any relationship Dimitri gets himself into that isn’t a predetermined engagement to better their organization as being in the way.

In other words, he believes I was holding Dimitri back.

So while the events of these past few days are shocking, I probably should have seen them coming. I mean, I never could have imagined that being the event, but a deep-rooted fear always knew Ivan would do something at some point to drive a wedge between his son and me.

Fuck. I think it’s happening.

I should fight the wedge…but what if I no longer have the energy to? I love Dimitri with all my heart, but since waking up in the hospital, I’ve had to think about a few things. Things I never thought I ever would…but then again, I also never thought I’d be raped. Life can be unexpected that way.

For you, Diary, I’m going to list them.

-Can I honestly walk into his home, knowing Ivan is skulking somewhere, and feel safe?

-What if there’s a time, even in another few years, when Dimitri will have to choose between me and the Bratva?

Now, I’d like to say he’d pick me, but once he’s fully sworn in…

I don’t know. It’s too unknown how the future will pan out.

The deeper into the Bratva he gets, the more his father will get into his head.

If Ivan orders me out of his life, will Dimitri still choose me?

-What’s to say Ivan won’t send more people? The moment I return to Dimitri, he might do it again. And again…and again. Am I setting myself up for a world of torture? At some point, will love be enough?

-Can I actually get better being in the same city as Ivan?

Or when I see Dimitri, but know he goes home to the man who ordered the execution on my well-being?

I need the nightmares to go away. I need to move on—although it seems impossible.

It’s the one thing the psychologist said that I agree with: I can’t let them win forever.

Living in the dark, allowing myself to relive that night over and over, isn’t how my life should or could go.

To let them go means not giving them that power over me.

But if I continue in Ivan’s circle—because to be with Dimitri keeps me in that range, even if I’d like to believe otherwise—will I be able to heal, or will the sight of Ivan or even hearing his name send me into my own head?

-What about Dimitri? Can he heal properly by having me around all the time?

Is it even smart for two traumatized people to heal together?

I should have asked the psychologist. Did our bond of love transform into a trauma bond?

Will we be together only because of this shared experience? My fear and his guilt.

-What does the future even hold for us? Even if Ivan accepted me (fat chance!), can I be the woman Dimitri will need?

Right now, he’s eighteen, but eventually he’ll be like the other soldiers, like his father and uncle.

Aged and worn from life in the organization, blood staining his hands, and countless other crimes I can’t list because I probably couldn’t guess them.

Right now, I’ve been fine with his life, but could I say the same in ten years?

Twenty? He needs a forever woman…and I want it to be me, but I’m scared it won’t be.

Can I accept his world knowing how his world has already hurt me?

-What if there’s a time when I’ll need to shoot a gun? Will I want to? Is that me? I want to teach kids and have a nice house one day. Safe.

-Have I been kidding myself for the past few years, my emotions aside?

I love him with my entire heart, and everything above seems surreal. Before grad, I never would have had this list. Whether or not some of the anxieties were present, I would have ignored them and believed our feelings for one another were enough, and everything else would work out eventually.

Funny how life works out. Must be the trauma.

Diary, what do I do?

By the time I drop the pen onto my lap, small dots infiltrate my words. Tears forever staining the paper where I’ve written the unwanted truth.

Dimitri is a Bratva soldier from a family intent on ruling the country through whatever means necessary.

I’m a regular girl from a family content to lead peaceful lives, under the radar.

The two don’t go together.

We were two flames never meant to burn within the same fire. His path is meant to blaze, while mine will simply smoulder.

And right now, it feels like my flame has been doused.

Whether or not I’ll ever be ignited again remains to be seen.