Inked Adonis (Litvinov Bratva Book 1)
Inked Adonis: Chapter 43

I wake up moaning, pain splintering up my thigh and hip. Stars burst behind my eyes as I try to reach down to ease the cramp in my calf, only to find my arm in a splint.

I need a doctor. A nurse. A fucking executioner.

“Ow,” I groan, rolling onto my good side to find some kind of call button for any or all of the above options.

But instead of the plastic sides of a hospital bed, I’m facing a window. A sickeningly familiar window.

My heart kicks into an unsteady rhythm as my eyes spin around for something else—some other touchpoint to prove to me that I can’t possibly be where I think I am.

Instead, they land on a familiar, sunny yellow bookshelf. The middle shelf is bending under the weight of too many chapter books I stayed up way too late reading way too many times.

“No,” I whisper into the empty room. “No, no, no.”

This is the same room where I’d spend lonely nights listening to Morrie howl at the moon.

The same room where I’d camp out under my comforter, hiding from the sound of raucous poker games happening one floor below.

And I thought things couldn’t get any worse.

Karma heard that and turned the dial up to eleven. Now, I’m in the last place on earth I would ever want to be.

My father’s house.

“This can’t be fucking happening,” I whimper, closing my eyes like I might be able to blink this nightmare away.

I try to swing my legs off the side of the bed, but one is heavily bandaged. I can’t move my knee at all. I have some mobility in the arm that’s splinted, but I won’t be able to catch myself when I attempt to stand up and, inevitably, topple over.

I need to get out of this room.

Out of this house.

More than even that, though, I need water.

My mouth is a desert and the sandpaper scrape of my throat is more pressing than the dozens of questions bouncing around in my head.

Then I spot the crutch leaning against my banged-up bedside table. I awkwardly lift my leg with my left hand and wiggle to the side of the bed so I can wedge the crutch under my armpit.

It takes three tries before I can haul myself to my good leg without collapsing back onto the mattress in agony.

Not that standing feels much better. I ache all over. Whatever pain medication I might have been given at whatever hospital I was taken to—was I even taken to a hospital?—is gone now.

Along with my purse and my phone. Even my satchel full of dog treats is missing.

I stumble across the room to the door, trying to be as quiet as possible until I know what’s waiting for me on the other side. I know what used to be out there: raucous barbeques that ended in shattered bottles and bruised faces. The crack of leather against skin. A thousand small moments of terror that taught me to walk silent, to breathe shallow, to make myself invisible.

You ran from your demons, Nova, and it got you nowhere, but I’m no coward.

Sam’s accusation is ringing in my ears. The cruelest fucking thing anyone’s ever said to me.

But despite that, there’s still that yearning low in my belly. I still want to see him. I still wish he was here.

And on top of that, there’s the guilt. Maybe he was right about the security, about the dangers lurking in plain sight. Look where my independence got me: right back in the belly of the beast.

But being protected isn’t the same as being controlled. And if there’s one thing my father taught me, it’s how to tell the difference.

I can love Sam—fierce, overwhelming, terrifying love that it is—and still choose my own path. Even if that path leads away from him. Even if it breaks both our hearts.

Right now, that path leads downstairs. I just need to make it down there, find a phone, and call… someone. Anyone. Even if I have to crawl out of here on my hands and knees.

My stomach churns with horrifying possibilities, but I blow out a deep breath and turn the knob. Because I’m no coward.

Until I step into the eerily quiet hallway and see the stairwell. The flight of stairs is enough to send tears springing into my eyes. My leg hurts just from the shuffle across my room. How am I going to make it downstairs?

But calling for help is not an option.

At least the steps have been carpeted since I lived here. Small mercies. The padding will muffle the thud of my crutch, mask any sounds that might alert my father to my presence.

I grip the banister with my good hand, testing my weight. Each step sends bolts of pain through my leg. Sweat breaks out across my forehead, my back. By the time I reach the little alcove between the kitchen and living room, I’m trembling and gasping for air.

I’m also wondering how the hell I got here.

Grams is listed as my emergency contact. Hope is my backup, followed by literally anyone else on the planet, then my dad. So why am I here? How’d we get that far down the list?

My grandmother isn’t exactly in a position to take me in, but she knows I’d rather be stripped naked and left on the side of the road than be released into the custody of my father.

But it doesn’t take a genius to put the pieces together. For all his faults, Daddy has never been stupid. He keeps his ear to the ground. So it stands to reason that he might’ve seen my name on some report or had some back-alley scum lurking around to tip him off to that sort of thing.

Though, what he would want with me back under his roof, I have no idea.

I wrench my attention back to the task at hand: forward motion. One step at a time; that’s all I can do.

Until I get to the bottom and wonder if I was better off jumping from the roof instead.

It’s the first time I’ve heard my father speak in over a year. Goosebumps break out across my arms and legs like a rash.

“Yeah… It’s a stroke of fuckin’ luck, really. She’ll be laid up for a while.”

I can’t stop myself from leaning forward, from peeking around the door into the kitchen to see who he’s talking to and why he’s talking about me.

He’s at the kitchen table, his laptop open in front of him, video-chatting with someone I can’t see. The screen casts a sickly blue glow across his face, emphasizing the new creases around his eyes, the grey threading through his hair.

“She could choose to be laid up anywhere.” The voice coming through the speakers of his ancient laptop is muffled, but feminine.

I grip the wall next to me for support. What little strength I have is wearing thin and the room is starting to wobble.

“Don’t you worry about that.” His tone carries the same arrogant certainty it always has, like the world should bend to his will simply because he demands it. “I’ll keep her here.”

Keep me here?

Hell no. Absolutely not.

Even if this is my dad’s attempt to make amends for being the actual, literal worst for my entire life, I’m not staying here so he can play Dr. Dad.

Before I can hightail it out the front door and wave down the first car I see to get me as far from this house as geographically possible, the woman speaks again.

“Keeping her there is one thing. We need to convince her to help us.”

Why does that voice sound so familiar? My body must know what my mind can’t grasp, because I shiver.

“Leave it to me,” Dad replies. “I’ll convince her that helping us nail Litvinov is in her best interest.”

My heart thumps against my ribcage. I swallow, but all I can taste is the dry roughness of my own tongue.

Unable to help myself, I creep forward… just as my father sits back in his chair, revealing the person on the screen.

I choke back a gasp.

No.

But there’s no denying it.

Katerina Alekseeva isn’t a person you forget.