Page 3 of Nobody Wants Me (Volkov Bratva #5)

Not that I ever thought about my own dad. To follow Ivan Volkov, I had to make a sacrifice. Taking my father’s life had been easy. Killing the previous Bratva had been necessary. Allowing them to live would have meant Ivan failed. They were old-school.

Ivan didn’t want to keep things in his little rut.

He had big plans, and killing my father had been easy, especially after I saw him on video kill my mother and sister in a fit of rage.

I wasn’t there to witness it myself. My father claimed our enemies had attacked the house.

It was Ivan that showed him for the liar he was.

The whole thing had been recorded, and Ivan had stolen it and showed me as my mother begged.

How she tried to stop him from killing my little sister, who had only been fifteen years old.

He’d snapped her neck. Then he beat my mother until she couldn’t fight back.

He kept hitting her until there was nothing left and she couldn’t be identified.

I hated that bastard. Killing him was justified. I didn’t like that I had to do it quickly. I wanted to take my time, to make him suffer. I couldn’t do that, and it angered me in a way I was not prepared for. That anger had taken a long time to subside, but now I know I did the right thing.

I had failed my mother and sister. Since then, I vowed I would never love another female.

I loved my mother. She had given birth to me, raised me.

Given me love and warmth when my father wanted nothing more than a brutal killing machine.

My sister’s innocence had made her adorable.

Seeing the world from my father’s side, watching her after a hard day, she had been the light in my life.

I had vowed she would never know the harshness of life.

I had failed. So, I made sure I would never allow another woman to get into my heart. I would never love my wife. She was nothing more than a job.

Entering my garden toolshed, I grabbed the tape measure, along with the small notebook I used to gather measurements, and made my way back to her room.

“You do not sound fine. Tell me, how is your wife?”

“She’s busy. What do you want?” I asked.

I’d been warned that Ivan liked to meddle. So far, in the past month, he had kept his distance. I had a feeling he was currently working with The Butcher and The Beast in territory six, the one once run by the traitor.

He had yet to make a decision as to who was going to run that territory. It would not be divided between the five of us. Ivan would choose a winner soon enough, but The Butcher and The Beast were evenly matched. A man and a woman, ultimate killing machines. Deadly within their own right.

I don’t know the full details or what Ivan has on them, or why they are willing to take Ivan’s side. I don’t want to know. Some things were not meant for me to know.

“Can a man not call a friend?” Ivan asked.

“Yes, most men can call friends, the only problem is, you don’t always come with the friend code.”

“The friend code?” Ivan asked.

“Yeah, usually if a guy gets cold feet, a friend is there to drive the getaway car, not to take him to his fucking wedding,” I said.

I might have not wanted to get married. On my wedding day, I attempted to reason with Ivan about how bad of an idea it was. He refused to listen to reason, so I am now a married man.

And yet, I couldn’t get her crying out of my head. That night I didn’t console her. I fucked her, finished the job, and left. She had to clean everything else up. Did that make me an asshole? Absolutely, and that was the way I wanted it to be.

Women were weak. Apart from The Butcher.

I would actually consider her one of the scariest women I know.

The tales of what she had done, especially to Finn Byrne’s son, torturing him while the father watched.

From what I had heard, she had cut off the man’s dick and literally fed it to him.

Yeah, that shit was fucking scary. So, I was keeping a wide berth from that one.

“Trust me, if you stop being a pain in the ass, you might just see that your wife is in fact a nice one. I chose well for you.”

“I told you I didn’t want to get married, and you agreed,” I said.

I put the phone on speaker, and placed it on her sewing desk, taking out my tape to measure the space next to her current fabric shelves.

I took note of the width, length, and distance from the wall, so the shelves would match the ones I previously made.

I hadn’t kept those measurements. With that in hand, I made my escape, grabbed my cell phone, and headed out.

“Actually, I did agree that it wasn’t the right time for you to get married. But, if you recall, we both agreed that when I found the right bride for you, you’d marry her.”

“I didn’t.”

“Okay, you might have been drunk when you agreed.”

This made me blow out a breath.

“You know what, this just confirms I need to come.”

“Wait? What?” I asked.

This couldn’t be happening. I did not want Ivan Volkov here in my home.

“You don’t need to come,” I said.

“That’s not true. I need to come and I’ll be bringing a plus-one as well. See you tomorrow.”

With that, I was in my garden shed, my cell phone had literally gone dead, and Ivan Volkov and his plus-one were heading to my home.

This is not what I wanted.

This would be a fucking disaster.

****

F reya

My husband hated me and did everything he could to avoid me. That was fine, as long as I was good and didn’t make waves or cause a fuss, I would be safe.

I’d never been involved in any of my father’s business. At twenty-five years old, I had lived a rather sheltered life. It kind of helped that I was a natural recluse and liked my own company. I didn’t make friends well.

Also, my father couldn’t stand the thought of me being known by many people. I was homeschooled and took online courses.

I had my own small house, within his grounds, but he never had to see me.

I lived my own life, and he made sure I had an allowance.

With no other bills to pay, I saved a lot of money from that allowance, although I could have quite easily spent it all on fabric or makeup.

I didn’t. I always tried to live within my means.

He refused to allow me to get a job. Again, it was all about his personal image to the outside world. It would look bad if I attempted to go to work. He couldn’t stand it, so I didn’t.

All I did was try to be a better person.

I gave money to charities I loved. I volunteered at an animal shelter, and a homeless one as well.

At least, I had until my dad found out and pretty much trapped me in my own home.

There had been guards stationed outside my home to stop me from leaving.

That was the first time I felt like a prisoner.

There were guards outside of Victor’s home as well.

He was part of the Volkov Bratva. I do not have the first clue how my father got meddled up in Bratva, but from my short research, it wasn’t good.

I had no idea how my father had been able to maintain a loving personality for the world to see, while living a lie behind closed doors.

But then, I’ve come to see that everyone seems to do that. I’m the same person outside that I am on the inside.

It had been fun spending time with Rafael.

I’m used to people not liking me. I’ve been told that people put up with me because of my last name.

Other than that, I’m not likable or attractive.

When I was younger, my half-brothers told me I was ugly, fat, and horrible, and no one would ever want to be my friend.

You grow a thick skin. Add to the fact that social situations make me nervous, and I don’t like crowds, which meant I was used to being alone.

I found a sense of peace in the quiet. Also, being told I was hated meant that I worried about imposing on other people’s time. So, I always told Rafael that if I irritated or annoyed him, or he didn’t want my company, he just had to say so, and I wouldn’t take offense.

Now, did I say it wouldn’t hurt? No, I didn’t, and it hurt a lot. But I couldn’t blame someone for not liking me, could I? Some people were just not meant to be adored.

I guess that was why my husband did the deed on our wedding night, and then left. I figured he just couldn’t stand me. He had to do what he did. I was a job, a chore, which is another reason I attempted to stay out of his way.

We hadn’t shared a dinner, and other than in passing, I always made sure to hide when he was around. Clearly, he hated me.

I hoped we didn’t ever have to have sex again. Not that I’d been overly curious about sex. After the way my father and brothers behaved around women, I wasn’t interested in sex or men. I just wanted to be left alone. After my wedding night, I was more than happy to be left alone. Sex was awful.

Stepping into the house, I made my way to my sewing room, and when I got there, I saw that the door was partially open, which was strange, as I knew I had closed it. This was Victor’s house, not my house. He could come and go wherever he wanted. I didn’t have a say in that.

Stepping inside, I dreaded what I would find.

One day, my father was so angry with me as I refused, once again, to go in for plastic surgery to change everything that was wrong with me.

He trashed my entire sewing space. I came home to find my sewing machine smashed to pieces.

Precious fabric I had purchased had been torn.

He’d even taken some out to the yard and burned it.

The whole room had been a mess. He’d not stopped there and had destroyed all my makeup as well.

This had been a couple of years ago. In my makeup, using my red lipstick I loved, he had written the words, UGLY FAT BITCH, on my wall.

That was my dad, never holding back. I cleaned up the mess that night, then cried and sobbed for hours.

The tears wouldn’t stop. I think it was then I realized I would never be good enough for him.

Not unless I drastically changed who I was.

I didn’t mind the way I looked. Was I beautiful?

No, but I was happy. I liked my thick, long, brown, curly hair.

I didn’t mind my brown eyes either, although he often told me it made me look like a cow.

I was overweight. I had thick thighs, full hips, and large tits.

I always had been on the larger size. No matter what diet I tried, it didn’t change my weight.

He’d wanted me to go for liposuction, and that looked so painful.

All the surgical options looked painful. I hated pain.

Closing the door behind me, I leaned against the door and took a deep breath.

I could handle this. It wasn’t too hard.

I felt tears fill my eyes, but I quickly batted them away.

This was Victor’s house, and he could come and go as he pleased.

Looking through the room, I felt myself sigh in relief. It was still as clean as I had left it.

There was a shirtdress I was currently making. It was the height of summer now, and I loved to make clothes a season ahead, so I was making clothes for the fall. I loved to make my own clothes.

Yeah, there was a bad memory of being taken clothes shopping. But there are some things I should never think about again. I tried to forget the bad stuff.

My dad was not here. He’d not called me. He hadn’t even been there the day after my wedding to see if I was okay. Neither had my brothers. To them, everything was done.

Stepping toward my machine, I sat down and reached into the basket, grabbing the first item, and I scrunched up my nose. It was a collar piece, and they were fiddly little devils.

I had this idea in mind of a shirtdress, as I had some beautiful cotton fabric in my stash, with a Halloween theme. I loved Halloween and Christmas. I was never a lover of Thanksgiving, but I loved the other two holidays.

Checking the time, I saw I had a good hour before dinner, so I saw no reason to dillydally, and got to sewing the dreaded collar. It took me a couple of attempts to get both sides looking equal, but as soon as I did, I trimmed the corners, pressed it, and my sewing room door opened.

It was Victor, carrying wood.

At first, we both just stared at one another.

“Uh, is something wrong?” I asked.

“You need new shelves.” He came in and placed some wood on the floor. One of his soldiers followed with more wood. I could only stare. Victor dismissed him, and then he looked at me, before looking down at the pile of wood. “I’m going to build you shelves.”

“Oh,” I said. Now, that was really sweet, and it explained why the door was open. Victor had been here.

Putting the finished collar back into the basket, I turned off my machine and moved closer.

“Do you want my help?” It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him I would understand if he didn’t, but I kept that to myself.

“Sure.”

It wasn’t much, but at least it was a start. Although, my hands felt clammy, and I felt a little sick.

I’d not spent any time with Victor, other than our wedding night.