Chapter 13
SEMYON
I kicked a loose rock at the bank of the creek, watching it tumble into the water with a heavy splash. It was like the endless noise that lived in my head these days after my parents’ death—too loud, impossible to ignore. I thrived on routine, structure, predictability, and the past few months following their deaths had been anything but that.
Rafail had taken over, the guardian of my siblings, and as the second oldest, I helped. Zoya, the baby, was the one who struggled the most. Yana had her own struggles, different from the rest of us, and Rafail—he held it all together. Me? I was the one who struggled.
I came here to think, to get away from Rafail's constant snarking about everyone having to shape up if they wanted to stay safe and with him. He was petrified of one of us screwing up and him losing guardianship over us. Some days, it felt like the tenuous thread holding our family together was about to snap .
We needed space. I needed to regroup. And I knew I didn't have the tools other people had. I often missed social cues, didn’t understand emotion the way others seemed to, and when my world felt like it was crumbling because something changed, people didn’t understand that it felt like the plates of the earth shifted, causing my own personal earthquake.
They never understood. When my world was predictable and ordered, the chatter in my head died down.
Here, by the creek, it was quiet. This was where Anya and Eli were my friends, where I could tell them the truth. Where I could be a kid for once.
But it wasn't anymore. That ended the day my parents died.
I heard soft sniffles behind me.
When I turned, I spotted her right away—a tiny, gangly thing with wild hair and eyes that looked even bigger when she was crying. Anya. Eli’s baby sister and my friend. She was sitting on the ground, and she hadn’t seen me yet, as she hugged her knees to her chest. Eli was supposed to be with her.
“Anya, what are you doing out here?”
My voice was gruffer than I intended. She looked up sharply, sniffled, and muttered something I couldn't hear. I sighed, walking over to crouch in front of her. Emotions were always a challenge for me to figure out, and it was even more complicated when it came to girls.
“Anya, what's wrong?” I asked, trying to soften my tone, though that wasn’t something I was very good at doing .
Finally, she raised her head, her tear-streaked face meeting mine with frustration. “Eli said he’d meet me here. He said he was going to teach me how to skip rocks.”
Even though I couldn't read people very well, I knew she was lying. Somebody had done something or said something—this wasn’t about skipping rocks. “I don't think this is really about skipping rocks, is it?”
She stared at me, and her eyes skated down to my neck, where my first tattoo showed. Something shifted in her expression—recognition, maybe.
“Anyway,” I continued, pushing past the tension. “You don’t need Eli for that.”
She blinked at me, her tears slowing. “I don’t?”
“Of course not.” I stood up, scanning the bank until I found a few flat stones, then held one out to her. “You just need this—and a little practice.”
She hesitated before reaching for the rock, her small hand brushing against mine. “How do I do it?”
“Come here,” I said, gesturing to the water. My voice was rough, but I softened it as much as I could. I didn’t have time for this—Rafail wouldn’t like me wasting time here.
But I wanted to show her.
She scrambled to her feet, her too-big shoes slipping on the wet grass. I crouched low, showing her how to angle her arm and release the stone just right. Then, with a flick of my wrist, I sent it skipping across the surface—once, twice, three times before it sank into the depths.
“Wow,” she whispered, her mouth hanging open .
“Your turn,” I said, stepping back to give her space.
She tried to imitate my movements, frowning in concentration, but her first throw landed with a heavy splash. No skips.
“Not like that,” I said, smirking. “You have to flick it just right. It should hit the surface lightly enough to skip again, not sink.”
And she did it. Over and over and over again, she tried, stubborn as ever, until finally, one of her rocks skipped once. She leaped into the air, her laugh bright and unrestrained. It was beautiful. Priceless. I wished I could capture that sound and replay it when the noise in my head got too loud.
“Did you see that?” she said, turning to me, her eyes lit up. For one second, she looked older than her years.
And for one second, I forgot the noise in my head. The only voice was… hers. “Not bad,” I said, allowing myself a small smile.
She was tougher than she looked. She picked up another rock and skipped it again. And then another.
“I wasn’t crying because of Eli,” she admitted after a while.
“I know.”
I didn’t meet her eyes as I picked up more flat rocks and held them in the palm of my hand. I had figured out that people didn’t like it when they were being vulnerable and you looked them in the eyes.
“You prepared to tell me what it was?”
She took a sharp breath, then looked at me. “What would you do if I told you the truth? ”
What would I do? What a strange question. “Listen,” I said, confused.
“No—” She looked away. “You’re too protective sometimes. People are afraid of you, Semyon.”
Good. People should be. I was fucking Bratva, coming into my own.
But I needed to know.
“Are you?” I asked, my voice low.
She shook her head with wide eyes. “Afraid of you?”
I swallowed, unsure if I really wanted to hear her answer.
“Sometimes,” she whispered. Then she looked back at the water. “And then I remember who you are. Just Semyon. Like a brother to me.”
Like a brother to me. Why did that cut so deep?
The sound of voices behind us caught her attention. She looked terrified, her eyes wide.
“Why are you afraid?” I asked, a simmering anger building in my veins. My hands clenched into fists. I leaned in closer, so close our breaths mingled, and I could see the way she drew in a breath. “Who hurt you?”
“It’s them,” she whispered. “God, it’s them. The boys from school. Stupid fucking bullies.”
“Anya.” I didn’t like the fear in her eyes. She was too young, too innocent, too…
“Can you trust me?” I asked her.
She took in a shaky breath. “You’re the only one I trust. ”
Pride swelled in my chest. I stepped behind a tree as two boys came around the corner.
“Did your mom dress you in those rags?” one sneered, gesturing at her clothes.
“I think she got them from the garbage bin.” Another laughed, pointing at her scuffed sneakers.
My hands clenched into fists so tightly my knuckles ached.
“Shut up!” she snapped, her voice loud and defiant, but they only laughed harder.
I wasn’t going to let this happen.
I stepped out from the shadows. “Excuse me? Do you want to repeat that again to me?”
My voice cut through their laughter, and they froze.
I stepped forward, my eyes locking with the leader of the group.
“We were just joking around,” he said, his voice shaky as he took a step back.
“Yeah?” It took effort to keep my voice calm, to stop myself from destroying him right here in front of everyone. Humans were so much more fragile than they knew. I knew exactly where to strike to make his blood flow in rivulets, soaking the earth while he cried for mercy. “Doesn’t look like she’s laughing. If you’re joking, be funnier.”
Their eyes darted between Anya and me. I was tall for my age, already built, lean and strong from training under Rafail’s watchful eye.
And unlike most, I didn’t care whose blood I spilled .
“We didn’t mean anything,” the boy mumbled.
I flicked the switchblade in my hand, and the blade sprang to life. The group scattered, muttering excuses as they ran.
“Then get the fuck out of here,” I said coldly, my voice leaving no room for argument. “You make fun of her again, and you deal with me.”
A part of me hoped they would. I’d given them fair warning.
“Semyon,” she said in a small voice. “That’s what I meant. You can’t just threaten them with a weapon.”
I met her eyes. “Wasn’t a threat, Anya.”
She swallowed and opened her mouth like she was going to protest, but then she just finished quietly, “Thanks.”
“Anytime anyone threatens you, Anya. Anytime. You come and tell me.”
So maybe I don’t like the idea of my wife at the bakery without me. Even with a guard. She’s not their wife. I’m the one that will watch her best.
So I set up my laptop in the corner of the shop and watch as she works. I try to concentrate. But how the hell am I supposed to run through encrypted data and try to identify the source of the email he got when Anya’s here? She’s moving through the space with confidence, tying her apron on with practiced ease. Flour dusts her fingertips as she prepares dough. She softly hums to herself while she kneads it. A stray strand of hair sneaks out from under her bun. Adorable.
Jesus. I have to focus.
She continues to hum, lost in her own world. I should be focusing more on pressing matters, but once customers start entering, fuck it. I ignore the laptop and sip on a cup of coffee instead.
I have to make sure they’re treating her well. My wife. She bags up a few rolls for an elderly woman who talks at length about her dog’s ailments. Anya listens patiently, even when the lady begins repeating herself. She hands a free treat to a small child in a stroller after the mother buys a cup of coffee. The blonde toddler waves chubby fingers at Anya in thanks. A middle-aged businessman in a suit grunts about the rising price of tea, but when I clear my throat, he thanks her and takes his leave.
Customer after customer comes in. For today, it’s just Anya operating the register, but she looks exhausted come midday.
“Break time,” I tell her, turning off my laptop. “Take a lunch break.”
Her jaw firms as she meets my gaze and clears her throat. “I don’t take lunch breaks.”
I feign shock, my brows shooting upward. I know she doesn’t take breaks. I know everything about her. She works her fingers to the bone and neglects her own needs, as if driving herself into the ground will finally prove to her what no one else ever has. “Do you mean to tell me you don’t take care of my wife? ”
Blinking, she opens her mouth as if to protest, then shuts it quickly. With a sigh, she looks down at a tablet and swipes it. I close my laptop and go to join her. “I ordered lunch. It’ll be here soon. Quick break, and then back at it, if it makes you feel better.”
“Right,” she says absently, staring at the tablet.
“What is it?”
With a shrug, she doesn’t answer at first, but I don’t miss the way her lower lip trembles. Then in a whisper, as if she doesn’t trust her voice, she says, “Someone left a…really bad review.”
I step forward. She doesn’t stop me as I take the tablet from her hands. My gaze moves over the words quickly.
Overpriced. Mediocre. Unoriginal. Stick to something else, sweetheart. Baking obviously isn’t your thing.
In an instant, I memorize the name attached to the review. Idiot didn’t bother using a screen name.
Anya’s eyes shine, but she’s trying to keep her tears at bay. I hate that. I hate that something as insignificant as a faceless review can affect her so badly. My fingers tighten around the edge of the tablet, then I place it down.
Before she can move, I swipe my thumb across her cheek and wipe the tear away.
“Who wrote it?” My voice is devoid of emotion.
“It doesn’t matter,” she mutters, looking away.
Someone knocks at the door. Delivery’s arrived.
It does matter. And I don’t forget.