Page 87 of Toxic Temptation (Krayev Bratva #1)

VESPER

When you’re dying inside, you go home to your mother.

I don’t remember driving here. Don’t remember parking or walking up the front steps. But somehow, I’m standing on Mom’s porch, shaking like a leaf, trying not to fall apart completely.

The door opens. “… Vesper?” Her face crumples the second she sees me. “Oh, sweetheart.”

That’s when I break.

Right there on her doorstep, I shatter into a million pieces. She catches me before I hit the ground, her arms wrapping around me like they used to when I was small and thought she could fix anything.

“I’ve got you,” she whispers, guiding me inside. “Mama’s got you.”

I want to ask her about Dad. About what Ihor told me. About the organ trafficking and the choices Dad made and whether she knew all along.

But I can’t form the words.

So I just hold on and cry.

Thirty minutes later, Waylen bursts through the front door. Mom must’ve texted and told him something, because his hands are clenched into fists. “If he hurt you, I swear to God?—”

“Waylen, enough,” Mom barks. “Your sister needs support right now, not more anger.”

He deflates, dropping down to a seat on my other side. “What happened?”

“You were right about him.” I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. “I should have listened.”

“What did he do?”

“I can’t talk about it yet.” I slump back against the couch cushions. “We’re over. And he won’t let me see Luka anymore.”

Waylen’s face darkens. “I’m going to kill him.”

“Don’t.” I close my eyes. “Just don’t. I wanted out, too. He’s not who I thought he was. But losing Luka…”

“Oh, honey.” Mom reaches for my hand.

When I look at her, really look, I notice how pale she is. How thin. When did she get so fragile?

“Mom? Are you okay?”

She tries to smile. Fails. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just tired.”

But then she stands. Stands up too fast, actually. Sways.

“Mom—”

She collapses.

One second, she’s upright; the next she’s on the floor, her body seizing.

“Call 911!” I drop to my knees beside her, checking her pulse. “Mom, stay with me. You’re going to be okay.”

“No ambulance.” She can barely even whisper. “Call Dr. Nass. Her number’s in my phone.”

My skin prickles with goosebumps. “Dr. Erica Nass? Like, from St. Raphael’s?”

Mom nods weakly.

“She’s an oncologist,” I tell Waylen, who’s staring at us in confusion.

“I’m sorry.” Mom’s lips are turning blue. “I should have told you both sooner.”

“Told us what?” Waylen’s voice cracks. “Mom, what are you talking about?”

I already know. Before she says the words, I already know.

“I have cancer, my babies. Stage four.”

First, Kovan.

Then, Luka.

Now, this.

I curl up on the floor next to my mother and wonder how much loss one person can survive.