Chapter 17 Lev
LEV
She passes out quickly, which was the intention behind tossing on a random show. While sleep steals her away, my gaze remains straight on the TV, trying to ignore the voice in my mind. Her voice, believing she’s an incumbrance to people.
Her, a burden.
Me, a resource.
Like we’re two sides of the same fucking coin, waiting for someone to come by and flip us, deciding themselves which one of us to use and how.
I don’t like it, don’t like that she’s hiding this from others—her demeanour made that obvious—because if anyone’s reinforcing those thoughts, it needs to end. I also don’t like that she told me, because it makes my head buzz and my stomach a ravaging storm.
Tonight could burn, for all I care. Her boyfriend’s actions, her despondent emotions, her struggling to sleep, her disclosure—all shouldn’t exist. Serafina’s sunshine and blue skies, not gloom and storms.
After another couple minutes, when I’m sure she’s fallen asleep, I take in her position. If I leave her be, she’ll probably get a cramp, but I also don’t want to wake her, since she’s finally resting.
After muting the TV but leaving it on to use the glow to see, I get to my feet, hovering over her. I could recline her, grab a blanket, and leave her for the night…or I could carry her to bed.
Which would involve touching her. My hands curl as I shift nearer the couch, knees pressing into the cushion. Can I? Should I?
Blyat.
I certainly can’t leave her like this.
With a sigh, I stoop to slide one arm beneath her knees, the other around her back, turning her into my chest. She’s quite light, and when her head lolls backwards, I shift my arm until my shoulder catches her.
This time, she’s resting over my rapidly thumping heart, and I don’t know if that’s a good thing.
She can feel my panic, my lack of composure over something as silly as carrying a woman to her bed.
If either of our families witnessed this, I’d probably be shot.
She groans softly, turning her head into my chest, and I nearly stumble over my feet.
This goes beyond touching, but I tell myself it’s exactly the kind of hold I had her in today, when I yanked her deeper into the forest, or after getting her away from Ivan’s attack, when I shielded her. I’m simply helping.
Still, my steps pick up until reaching her bedside, where I draw back the blankets. As my arms mercifully release her, her fingers curl into my shirt, keeping me still.
“Thank you,” she mumbles through the fog. Her head moves back and forth as her lids flutter. Thankfully, the dark of her room keeps her down.
“You’ve already thanked me, Fina.”
“Not for…that. For…”
But sleep drags her under, and her fingers unlatch from my shirt as her arm slumps to the bed. I stay for a moment, my feet glued to the floor, waiting to hear her breathe deeply before quietly backing away and shutting her door.
After switching the TV off and brushing my teeth, I head for my room. As I yank my shirt off, her perfume hits me from where it clings to the material. While the indents from her grip are long smoothed away, they scar.
Scar the shirt. Scar me.
Her gratitude scars me. It felt like more than any previous time she’s said it. This time, it’s…lasting, a lingering, festering twinge in my chest that’s trying to define something else.
I stopped seeking gratitude a long time ago. Papa never showed me any, and the one time I longed for it was the first time seeing none of my actions would be good enough for him. He’d written me off—and I was only twelve.
Papa’s been having issues with his phone, so while he was in the shower, I snuck in and updated it. It was a simple fix; a few clicks, and he’s good to go. I plug it back into its charger before returning to my room and resuming my fix of a broken laptop.
Ten minutes later, Papa’s booming “Lev! Where the fuck are you?” comes ricocheting down the hallway before my door is slammed against the far wall.
I jerk away from the device, wishing I had time to hide it, except his rage lands on it. My technical skills have been slowly improving, but Papa thinks I need to be more like Dimitri, the Pakhan’s nephew.
“Did you touch my phone, you little soplyak?” Brat.
“Da. You mentioned having issues with the speed. It was a simple fix.” It might not be hitting a target—something I’m just learning—but it’s still useful. Papa should be thrilled.
Instead, he slams his hand against my door before jabbing a finger my way. “Never ever touch my stuff again. You hear me, Lev?”
I blink, my hands twisted in the shirt Serafina was just clinging to. I bring it up to my nose, inhaling the lingering scent from when I carried her.
As a kid, I wanted Papa’s appreciation and praise. I’ve learned to not care.
But coming from Serafina…it’s tempting to care again.
By the time morning arrives, sleep clings like a cruel monster. Serafina isn’t wrong about me sleeping less here than at home, but the blame isn’t on her. It’s this fucking building.
Normally, I’m awake before she is, but today, she’s already up and seated on the couch, textbook on her lap, chewing on a pen as she reads.
She doesn’t look up right away. Her hair is in a messy bun on top of her head, tendrils framing her face.
She nibbles on the end of her pen, my dick responding in ways it definitely shouldn’t be.
Her tanks rests low, the curve of her breasts holding my attention for longer than my vows to Vanessa should allow.
Last night, they were pressed against me, but I was focused on getting her to bed. Now…now, I need to avert my gaze.
My steps are silent, but the floor of this shitty dorm creaks, which draws her attention to the fact I’m not wearing a shirt.
“Normally, you’re not up yet,” I say in way of apologizing and explaining.
Her eyes flick from my chest to my face, cheeks reddening. “I struggled to stay in bed and figured since my first class isn’t ’til eleven, it’d be smart to get some studying done. Sorry.”
“It’s your dorm. Do what you want.” Her room. Her experience. I’m simply the shadow, meant to watch but not interfere.
“Thanks for carrying me to bed.” The red in her face deepens. “Guess your TV show idea worked. You could have left me here.”
“Could have, but I didn’t.” I go to move, only to be stopped once again by her standing. She stretches, her shirt pulling taut.
For fuck’s sake.
“Hungry?”
More than ever, yes, but not for food.
“I can eat.”
She tosses a smile over her shoulder before heading into her bedroom, where she remains for the better part of thirty minutes. In that time, I get dressed, check my email, and continue working on what I can for Dimitri, but not before scanning her textbook to see what she’s reading.
Zeno might love her, but he made Serafina sound shallow and bratty, which struck me as odd, because it wasn’t how my first interaction with her went.
I know better than anyone how easy it is to conceal one’s thoughts.
It was necessary for surviving the Bratva during the last reign.
Even Anastasia only knows so much of what’s in my head, because it’s easier to hide behind walls and my low comprehension of emotions and feelings than what’s right and wrong.
Serafina’s fake brat persona to her brother is simply that.
She dislikes how her birth changed the lives of Zeno and their mother, but clearly, no one’s asked her about it.
About how it felt learning about a half-sister and an entire other bloodline.
How it feels to be banished by a man who didn’t see her as his own—when blood actually means shit all in the end.
Through all of that, Serafina was meant to be okay, and everyone assumed she was.
It's no wonder she constantly defied Zeno’s rules.
Serafina returns dressed in a cardigan and jeans, hair brushed in a ponytail, looking refreshed. Happier. Calmer. Details I normally wouldn’t point out because it means studying them, but with Serafina, it’s further proof of how she affects me.
“How are you?” I find myself asking—wanting to know.
She shrugs, staring at her phone. “Turned it back on this morning. No more calls, so seems he got the hint.”
“That didn’t answer my question.”
“I’m as good as a person who broke up with their boyfriend can be.”
Which is?
“I’m…torn.” The calm of her eyes shifts into a storm.
“There was always something off about him, something I ignored because there were some good times too. Very few, mind you, so maybe it was just my rebellion that made me think so. I didn’t really like him all that much, so I’m more pissed off about last night than heartbroken. ”
Zeno and I should discuss next steps; if he was Vitale, the marriage agreement means he won’t stop coming for her. This won’t be the last Serafina hears from him, regardless of the break-up she believes is real.
“Before we go to breakfast, I should warn you about this Saturday. Down the street, there’s this huge house party we’re all invited to. Amara will be back by then, so I’ll be meeting up with her.”
And so it begins. For a while, I’d been lucky for Serafina’s reality show obsession. TV means staying away from people. Means it’s tolerable.
There’s no fucking way she’s going to some stupid party where these kids will try to outdrink themselves. This is every nightmare possible at once. It’ll destroy me.
“Okay.”
It’s not okay. Not even close.
She watches me closely, searching for the dislike that probably isn’t very well hidden.
“You don’t have to come. You don’t seem like you want to.
I get it might be a lot, so stay here. Hell, I’m only going for Amara.
” Her lips fold down in the corners, but she shakes off whatever’s in her head.
“It’s down the road. I’ll call if anything goes wrong. ”
“Out of the question. Nice try.” She couldn’t even go on a date with her own boyfriend without running into trouble.
“Alright. Just…fit in. Have a drink.”