Kirill (Marinov Bratva #3)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

SLOANE

A hand breaks the surface of the water, fingers clawing for something solid that isn’t there before they slip under again.

“Eden! Eden, help me!” my sister, Katherine, calls. “Please, I can’t get her out!”

Katherine thrashes beside the sinking figure, her movements panicked as she reaches forward again. Her palms smack the water hard, hair sticking to her face as she tries one more time to drag the body out.

“Don’t just stand there! Jump in and help me!”

Her desperation should send me running, but the world twists in front of me, bending and doubling. The vodka shots I had earlier churn in my stomach until I can’t tell how many bodies are in the water. Two? Three? Maybe more.

Everything smears together, the night blurred like wet paint, my clothes drenched and clinging to my skin.

“Eden!”

But my feet barely cooperate. The ground tilts beneath me, the patio lights stretching into long streaks across my vision. When I try to move, I slip instead.

“Eden, please! She’s dying! I can’t get her out alone!”

Then she’s beside me, looping her arms around me and holding me upright.

I don’t even remember her climbing out of the water. I rub at my eyes, blinking a few times before I gape at the pool, and I’m almost sure the other body is out now.

What the hell is happening?

“You didn’t mean it,” Katherine says. “It was an accident. You were drunk. You didn’t know what you were doing. Are you listening?”

She grabs my face and shakes me, but I can barely pay attention to her as something drags my vision back to the water.

“Wh-what happened?”

“Don’t you remember?” Her face shifts in and out of focus. “You drowned her. She’s dead.”

What? Drowned who?

No. I-I couldn’t have.

Then pieces of it start flashing through my head. The two of us screaming. Her shoving me. Me pushing her back.

Then nothing. The rest is gone.

“I’ll help you. No one will know. I’ll protect you.” Katherine’s voice turns almost gentle, like she can smooth this over and wipe away whatever I’ve done.

But I’m a killer. And nothing will ever erase that.

Her arms tighten around me, and all I can think is that she never hugs me.

“We’ll make it look like an accident,” she says. “I’ll take care of it. You’re okay, Eden. Just breathe. Let big sis handle it.”

A broken sound rips out of me before the whole scene goes dark.

My body jolts upward before I even register moving. My head snaps out of the bathwater on a gasp that scrapes my throat.

Air rushes in fast and hot, burning all the way down, and my hands clamp around the sides of the tub, clinging to the porcelain while the memory still grips the inside of my skull.

Water runs down my face in blurred lines until I can’t tell what’s bathwater and what’s tears.

I stare at the ceiling, trying to calm down, but the memory stays lodged just behind my eyes, refusing to let go.

She saved me that night. From what happened. From myself. And I ruined everything anyway.

People might look at me and see someone sweet, harmless. They’d be wrong.

Something in me has always felt off, like I came into the world shaped the wrong way. Mom used to say I was rotten, that I tore out of her hell-bent on ruining her life. Maybe she saw what everyone else missed.

But there’s no denying who and what I am: a monster.

All Katherine has ever tried to do is save me from myself. I’ve tried to piece that night—the night I killed my mother—together, but the pieces never lock into place. All that’s left is the screams, the water, and the way everything spun until the world stopped looking real at all.

I let out a harsh sigh, knowing my shift starts soon. I’ll have to drag myself out of this tub, pull my clothes back on, and sneak through the hallway like I didn’t just borrow the staff bathroom at the diner.

But it beats sleeping in the car that’s been my home for the past two weeks.

I don’t use the shower often, afraid my boss will catch me here and fire me, but if I don’t want to smell like I just crawled out of a litter box, I have to sneak in when I can.

At least it’s Monday, and Mondays mean Kirill and Lev. They are the only bright spots in a week that never seems to let up.

Every time I think about Lev, the quiet nine-year-old with big brown eyes that match his father’s, something tightens in my chest. Seeing him is the part of the day that makes everything else almost worth it.

Seeing his father does…other things I don’t say out loud.

Last week, Kirill pressed a folded stack of hundreds into my palm and said, “This is for you,” like it was nothing, then walked out before I could even ask why.

One thousand dollars. In cash. From a man who barely talks to me.

Why would he do that for me? I’m nothing to him. Just a waitress who brings him food and remembers his son likes curly fries and chocolate chip cookies.

Maybe for someone like him, a thousand dollars is nothing. Just a casual thank you for good service over the years.

Whatever the reason, it saved me. I bought gas for my car, covered my cellphone bill, set a little aside for food and necessities, and handed the rest to my sister.

A throb hits the center of my chest, but I rub it away, knowing that I’ll get back on my feet. I have to.

Sometimes I wonder what people with money feel like. Do they realize how lucky they are not to struggle just to survive?

My eyes close, escaping to a place where I’m Kirill’s. My fingers trace over the stubble of his jaw, drifting up to the rose and skull tattoo that climbs from his neck toward his temple.

I picture what it would be like to belong to a man like him. To be wanted. To be looked after without having to do something in return.

Would being with someone like Kirill give me an easier life?

Then reality snaps back in. I know better than to believe people care for free. There is always a price.

Still, that doesn’t stop the images from forming. His mouth on mine. His strong arms around me, holding me like I matter. His warm gaze on my face while he tells me I’m his and he loves me.

An ache punctures through the back of my eyes, but I ignore it.

Stupid thoughts. Someone like Kirill—a rich, handsome, powerful man—doesn’t look twice at a broke waitress who keeps spare change in her pocket and twenty bucks in her wallet on a good day.

But fantasies are the one thing no one can take from me, so I let myself keep this one for a little longer.