Page 59 of Toxic Temptation (Krayev Bratva #1)

VESPER

EIGHT DAYS LATER

“How is Luka?” I ask before I’ve even closed the car door properly.

Waylen adjusts his rearview mirror, avoiding my eyes. He’s wearing the burgundy sweater that Mom knitted for his thirtieth birthday. He always brings out the birthday gifts for family occasions.

You know, just to remind everyone he’s the good son.

And I’m the cold-hearted bitch.

“You literally FaceTimed him this morning,” Waylen reminds me, pulling away from the curb. “And you spent every waking moment with him yesterday. Pretty sure you know how he is.”

“He was congested last night.” I fidget with the zipper on my jacket. “I gave him those saline drops before bed. Did you make sure he used them?”

“Vesper, for the love of all that is good and holy—you sent me a novel-length text about the nose drops. Complete with diagrams. Of course I remembered.”

I ignore his sass. “And they helped?”

“They did. He slept through the night without coughing once.”

“Good.” I pull my jacket tighter even though the heater’s blasting. “That’s good.”

Waylen takes the scenic route toward Mom’s neighborhood. The long way. Which means he’s giving me time to psych myself up for this—my first visit home in six months.

“Kovan’s doing fine, too, by the way,” he adds.

My fingernails find a loose thread on my sleeve. “I didn’t ask about him.”

“You didn’t have to.” He drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “I’ve known you your entire life, remember? I can tell when you like someone. And I can definitely tell when you’re running scared.”

“I’m not running from anything,” I snap.

“It’s been eight days since the shooting at St. Raphael’s. You’ve seen him exactly once.”

I turn away from him and start picking at my cuticles. “I’ve been busy.”

“You’ve been hiding is what you’ve been doing.”

I whip around to face him. “Can you stop psychoanalyzing me for five minutes? God.”

“Someone has to. You won’t do it yourself.” He slows for a yellow light that he could have easily made. “It’s pretty obvious to everyone, you know.”

My chest tightens. “What’s obvious?”

“That you’re in love with him and it’s terrifying you.”

“I’m not?—”

“And that you’re doing that thing you always do when you’re scared of losing someone.”

“What thing?”

“You disappear first.”

I cringe instinctively. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Isn’t it?” He glances at me, and his expression is gentle now. Sad. “You did the same thing with Dad after his diagnosis.”

“That was completely different,” I insist.

“How?”

“Because Dad chose to die, Waylen,” I say. “He didn’t just refuse a liver; he refused my liver. He looked me in the eye and chose death over letting me help him.”

“He chose protecting you over?—”

“No.” I shake my head hard. “He gave up. On all of us. We weren’t worth fighting for.”

Waylen’s quiet for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice is careful. “Kovan asked about you.”

“He did?”

“Yeah. In that weird, roundabout way guys do when they’re trying to act like they don’t care but they obviously do.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That you’re good with death but terrible with loss.”

I stare at him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you can handle watching strangers die. You can hold their hands and fight for them until their last breath, but when that breath comes, it’s okay. But the possibility of losing someone you love? That sends you running for the hills every time.”

“That’s not true.”

“Vesper.” He’s the picture of patience, of reasonable calm, like he’s talking to one of his students. “You avoided Dad for months after he refused the transplant. You stopped visiting. Stopped calling. You basically grieved him while he was still alive.”

My eyes sting. “I couldn’t watch him choose to leave us.”

“And now, you can’t watch Kovan choose to stay.”

I turn to stare out the passenger window. The houses blur past, each one looking like the home I grew up in. Colonial. White picket fence. The American dream wrapped in vinyl siding, hiding so much sadness within.

“When did you become so wise?” I mutter cruelly.

“Therapy helps.”

“Since when do you go to therapy?”

“Since Dad died.” He pulls into Mom’s driveway and puts the car in park. “Six months. Twice a week. I never miss.”

My jaw hangs wide open. “You never told me.”

“You weren’t exactly taking calls, V.”

The guilt hits fresh and sharp. “Waylen, I’m sorry?—”

“Don’t be sorry.” He reaches over and grabs my hand. “Just be here now. That’s all Mom wants. That’s all any of us want.”

I look at the house where I learned to ride a bike and had my first kiss and found out what I wanted to be when I grew up.

Dad shingled that roof himself the summer our cat died.

The summer Waylen fell in love with Daphne Prescott and carved their initials in the old buckeye tree, the tree where we buried our dog Scout right beneath their declaration of forever.

“I see him everywhere here,” I whisper. “At the hospital, he was Dr. Fairfax. He was larger than life. Untouchable. But here… Here, he was just Dad. Here, he was mortal.”

Waylen nods. “That’s the thing about loving someone. They become human. Breakable. And that’s terrifying when you’ve already lost too much.”

I close my eyes and think about Kovan’s blood on my hands. My whole world tilted when I thought about the simple concept that one day, he might die.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit.

Waylen doesn’t have to ask who I’m talking about. “Love him, you mean?”

“Love him and survive losing him.”

“Maybe that’s not your choice to make.”

I look at my brother—really look at him. When did he get so wise? When did the boy who used to put gum in my hair become the thoughtful man giving me life advice?

“What if I’m not strong enough? Not strong enough for his world, the violence, the constant fear that every day might be the last.”

He bobs a shoulder. “What if you are?”

I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “You sound like Dad.”

“Good. He was usually right about the important stuff.”

“Not about the liver.”

“Maybe even about the liver,” he suggests.

I want to argue, but I’m tired of fighting ghosts. Tired of running from the living because I’m afraid of losing them, too.

After a long, pensive quiet, Waylen asks, “Ready?”

Truthfully, I’m not. I’m nowhere near ready to walk into that house full of memories. I’m not ready to face Mom and pretend everything’s fine. I’m not ready to stop hiding from the people I love most.

But maybe that’s the point. Maybe you’re never ready for the things that matter.

“Yeah,” I lie. “Ready.”

I’m not, of course. There’s no such thing as “ready” for something like this. But as we walk toward the front door, I think maybe it’s time to stop running.

Maybe it’s time to be brave enough to stay.