Untamed Thirst (Rogov Bratva #2)

Chapter One

Lauren

Hannah curls her fingers around mine as we leave preschool.

There’s a lump in my throat again. The same lump that was present yesterday when I saw the black SUV parked outside of my apartment building. I’m not quite sure how or why a black car can make me this anxious, but it does. I hope they got a parking fine and they’ll never come back.

Jesus, Lauren, relax.

It’s just a car.

There’s no reason to feel uneasy about anything, especially not a car. For the past four years, things have been perfectly… fine. I guess my mind has a tendency to go off on tangents, searching for… signs?

Signs of what?

I sigh and decide to push my spiraling thoughts into the back of my mind where they belong.

They are not helping. I guess there’s still a subconscious part of me that can’t get over what happened four years ago.

Maybe it never will. Maybe my traumatized brain is playing tricks on me, using the black SUV as a stinging reminder that I will never truly be able to leave the past in the past.

Four years have passed. Four years since Nikolai Rogov, Bratva boss, recovering jerk, the love of my life, and the father of my daughter sacrificed his life for us. I keep telling myself that things have been normal. That I’ve found my peace. But the truth is, I haven’t.

I turn the corner, finding myself sucking in a breath.

And there it is again.

Shit.

My chest tightens. I falter in my step, staring suspiciously at the vehicle.

“Mommy, what is it?” Hannah tugs on my hand, immediately feeling the shift in my demeanor.

“Nothing, baby,” I say to both myself and my baby girl. “Mommy is just being a little silly.”

It could belong to a new neighbor. The car is parked in the same position as yesterday. With the windows tinted, I can’t see if there’s anyone inside.

Maybe they’re inside one of the apartments.

Maybe they’re inside my apartment.

Seriously, Lauren?

I tighten my grip on Hannah’s hand and rush us inside, calling for the elevator as soon as we step inside the building. I might be being paranoid, but you can never be too careful. Not when you have a past like mine. Not when you have a baby girl to protect.

I navigate through the corridor to my apartment and unlock the door, cracking it open. Hannah casually walks in and dumps her preschool bag on the couch, hopping up onto the table to start her homework.

I stand in the center of the living area for a moment, staring at her little legs as they swing back and forth mid-air. They’re not long enough to touch the ground yet, which only reminds me of how tiny and vulnerable she is. How innocent.

I take a long, deep breath and slowly release it in an attempt to calm myself, but it’s not enough to get rid of the tension.

Maybe I’ll do some breathwork and meditation later.

I’ve read that they’re two of the best methods to calm an overactive nervous system.

I’ve tried them a few times and the results were surprisingly good.

For the past four years, all I have been trying to do is protect my daughter and turn her into a happy and stable human being. My only focus has been to keep her safe and to give her the loving childhood she deserves—the childhood every kid deserves. The childhood I never got to have.

I walk toward the window and peer out.

The car is gone.

Where did they go?

I’m still not quite sure why that makes me feel nauseous, but it does.

I sigh and drop my keys in the bowl, heading into the kitchen.

To be completely honest, there’s a good chance that my head is just creating crazy scenarios for no real reason.

I always had a wild imagination. Hypervigilance.

With a childhood and a past like mine, it is no wonder I turned out like that.

Maybe the consequence of sticking my nose into unlawful business isn’t just Nikolai’s death.

Maybe it’s a life of hallucinations, too.

Maybe the guilt I have over what happened to him is too much for my mind to bear.

Cool it, Lauren.

Meditation and breathwork will help.

First things first, I should get dinner ready.

I open the refrigerator, take out some chicken breast, and slice the packaging open.

For a moment, my mind imagines how the knife I’m using could slice open other things, but this time, I quickly snap myself out of it.

All I have to do is glance over at Hannah and my mind returns to normal.

Hannah is my everything. We have created a life of our own, and it’s a peaceful one.

We have our daily routine, and with that comes the life I have always wanted for her.

Watching her doodle into her workbook, curious eyes set on the page, brings warmth to my heart.

It reminds me that things are normal. Peaceful.

So, with that, I set the pieces of chicken breast on the chopping board and run the knife straight through the middle of the meat.

The rest of the evening passes in our usual rhythm.

Hannah chatters about her day at preschool while we eat, telling me about the finger painting they did and how Tommy shared his crackers with her at snack time.

Her innocent excitement is a balm to my frayed nerves, grounding me in the simple reality of our peaceful life together.

By the time we’ve cleared the dishes and she’s had her bath, the anxiety from earlier has settled into a dull ache in the back of my mind—still there, but manageable.

As the night begins to draw to a close, I get Hannah ready for bed and tuck her under the sheets, handing over one of her stuffed toys.

“Goodnight, baby.” I press a kiss to her temple, smoothing a lock of her dark hair behind her ear. “Sweet dreams.”

I’m about to head out of the room when she calls me.

“Mommy?”

I turn back around in the doorway. “What is it, angel?”

She hesitates for a moment, wide, innocent eyes staring up at me. The light from the corridor makes her face glow softly. “Tell me again how Daddy died.”

I immediately stiffen up, feeling the tension accumulate in my shoulders. “Uh.” I hesitate in the doorway, then step back into the room. I walk back toward the bed, stomach churning. This is the second time she has asked this question. “Why would you like to know this again, baby?”

“Because I had a dream about him.”

“When?”

“Last night.”

Like mother, like daughter.

She’s not the only one dreaming about the dearly departed.

I kneel beside the bed, catching her innocent eyes. They remind me of Nikolai every single time I look at her, eyes with the same deep shade of blue.

“Your daddy… he died protecting us, baby,” I explain. “He wanted to make sure that we stayed safe when you were still in my tummy.”

“Safe from what?”

I find myself hesitating. How much of this can I tell a four-year-old?

The last thing I want to do is lie to her, create fairytales about how her daddy went to live with the angels.

But how much of the truth can her developing mind handle?

Is there a handbook about how to handle a bizarre situation like this?

She really is a mini version of me, stubborn and curious. Always looking for the truth, always wanting an explanation for everything. “From bad people, baby,” I choke out. “That is why you and I get to have the amazing life we have.”

Hannah nods, seemingly satisfied with my answer. I just hope she won’t ask about this for a while. I endure enough torture just by looking into those deep blue eyes that look so much like her father’s.

Even after all this time, the wound cuts deep into my heart. It’s not just about losing the love of my life. It’s not just about the guilt. It’s also about the fact that Hannah will never get to have the father she deserves. That it will always just be the two of us.

Never three.

Four years on, and there still isn’t a day when I don’t think about that night.

The pain still feels fresh, ripping through my heart like I’m tied up in that chair again in the shipping container, consumed by darkness as the gunshots ripple through the air outside.

The sound of Nikolai’s body thumping to the ground plays on repeat on most nights.

Alive one minute, dead the next.

The fragility of human life.

The finite nature of it.

Once Hannah is asleep, I shut myself away in my own bedroom.

I flick on the nightstand lamp and crawl under the sheets, my hand reaching for my phone.

Sleep might still be in the cards if I can get some reassurance from Ethan tonight about the SUV.

Perhaps he’ll say something that makes it easier to believe that I’m just a little crazy.

I pull up the chat and shoot Ethan a message.

“Any updates on the SUV? It was around again today.”

Ethan Carter is the private investigator I hired a while ago.

Shortly after the night Nikolai died, I was going through a prolonged stage of denial, unable to process his death.

I turned to Ethan for information about the body, but after a week, he said he couldn’t find anything, that Bratva business is way above his pay grade.

Since then, I kept him on file anyway, just in case.

And I’m glad I did, because a few days ago when the black SUV appeared, I asked him to look into it.

His previous clients have all rated him five stars, so he clearly knows what he’s doing.

His text comes a few minutes after mine. I suppose he often works late into the night, given his career of choice.

“Hey, Lauren, thanks for letting me know. You’re not going to like this, but I haven’t been able to trace the plates. I’ll continue looking for information elsewhere.”

“Shit,” I curse under my breath. What does that mean? Shouldn’t an investigator like him be able to trace any car in the country?

I shoot back a text, my fingers tapping away on the phone screen. “What do you mean by that? Should I be worried?”

I stare at the screen, anticipating his next response. It takes about three minutes for his next text to appear.

“I’m going to ask around to see if anyone can help find that plate. But whoever is driving that car, they don’t want their identity known. That’s all I have for now. Let me know if you see the car again.”

I blink, staring at the message. Not exactly what I wanted to read. Could someone really be watching me? Could it be Ronan Aslanov himself?

I drop the phone on my bed, my mind scrambling for reasons Aslanov could be watching me.

Why would he be interested in me of all people?

He took out the competition, didn’t he? He’s probably out there somewhere living his best life in the underbelly of Atlanta, far away from the eyes of law enforcement.

What business could he possibly have with a working single mom and her four-year-old daughter?

No.

It can’t be him.

He has no reason to bother us.

Still, I find myself reaching for my phone again, typing out another text to Ethan.

“What are the chances of this being connected to organized crime? The Bratva, for instance?”

I stare at the screen, trying to anticipate his response. The three dots ripple as he types out his answer, then disappear. The same thing continues for two minutes. He’s hesitant, choosing his words carefully.

Why is he hesitating?

His response finally appears on my screen.

“Sorry, Lauren. Bratva affairs are above my pay grade as you know. I’ll try to get back to you on those plates in the next few days.”

Dammit!

So much for those five-star reviews. So far, it’s zero stars from me.

The frustration pulls at me even more now.

Dropping my phone on the nightstand, I snap off the light and slide underneath the covers, praying for a dreamless sleep tonight.

But I can’t help but look at the pillow beside me before closing my eyes.

Empty.

It’s been empty for four years and it will probably stay that way.

I only shared this bed with Nikolai once, but I still find myself imagining him here.

There are nights when all I want to do is mute the world and crawl into his arms, forgetting all of my worries.

Until reality hits and I realize I’m only hurting myself with these thoughts.

Gone are the days of me falling asleep to the steady sound of his heartbeat, my head resting on his impossibly broad, rock-hard chest.

I turn away from the pillow and bring my legs up to my chest, forcing my mind to let go.

He is gone, Lauren.

And he will never come back.