Traded and Bred by the Bratva (Bred By The BRATVA #19)

Chapter 1

SIDNEY

A s the numbers on the elevator display increase, I think about how much I hate hospitals. Not because of the smell. Most people complain about the smell.

The antiseptic. The bleach.

The strange, sterile scent that seems baked into every wall and floor tile.

At first, it bothered me too. The way it would come home with me, impregnated into my clothes and my hair.

And if I didn’t shower before catching a few hours of sleep, my pillow would reek of it in the morning. But I stopped noticing that weeks ago.

No, what I hate is the waiting. The endless, soul-sucking waiting.

Waiting for doctors. Waiting for updates. Waiting for test results.

Waiting for somebody to tell me my little brother is going to wake up.

I step out of the elevator on the fourth floor and tighten my grip on the paper coffee cup in my hand. The coffee is already lukewarm, but I don't have time to care. I don't have time for much of anything these days.

My sneakers squeak against the polished floor as I walk down the hallway.

I know this route by heart now. My body moves on autopilot without me having to make decisions for it.

I walk past the nurses' station and automatically nod to the three who are on staff. They don’t even check my visitor badge anymore.

They know me on sight, and when they clock the two cups in my hands.

They shoot me quick smiles laced with pity.

I pretend I don’t notice how sorry they feel for me and continue past the family waiting room.

Someone in there is crying. My tears dried up around the time the hospital scent stopped bothering me.

And then I arrive at the third door on the right. Room 417.

My stomach knots the moment I see the number. Every day, I tell myself this visit will be easier. Every day, I'm wrong.

I push open the door and swallow the lump in my throat that threatens to choke me every time I step into this room. "Hey, Ben."

My brother doesn't answer. He hasn't answered in six weeks. The room is quiet except for the steady rhythm of machines that monitor his still body’s functions.

He’s eyes are closed, so I know he can’t see me. I don’t even know if he can hear me, but I force a smile on my face because that makes it easier to keep my voice upbeat. "I brought coffee." I hold up two cups.

Ben can't drink coffee. He can't do anything right now, but not bringing him his own cup would be the same as giving up. And that is one thing I can’t do. I refuse to give up on my brother because he has never given up on me.

I set his cup on the windowsill and move toward the bed as I take a sip of mine.

The sight of him punches the air from my lungs, exactly the same way it did on day one.

Right after the car accident. The cuts have healed, and the swelling has gone down, although his pale skin still shows faint traces of the bruises that painted his entire body in purple and black, before fading to sickly yellow and green.

His body has healed, but not his mind. The swelling on his brain was so severe that the doctors had to induce a medical coma, and they don’t know when they’ll be able to take him out of it. The bruises inside his skull are not cooperating the way the ones on his body did.

And so, my big brother is still asleep, while I pray he has healing dreams.

I put my cup on the table by his bed and sit down in the chair beside his bed. Wrapping both hands around his, I try to take comfort in that his skin is warm. His callused palms and fingers feel familiar, except that they are too relaxed, too limp. Everything about him is too still.

Ben was never still before. Not even when he slept.

We shared bunk beds as kids, and more than once, I’d wake up because his legs were drumming against the mattress as he ran a race or jumped on a trampoline in his dreams. And when he was awake, he took up so much space because he was always in motion, talking, laughing, teasing.

And that’s why the warm skin doesn’t make me feel better. Instead, it makes my chest ache because he should be awake. He should be complaining and arguing with me.

Demanding I sneak him proper food because hospital food tastes like cardboard.

Instead, all I get is silence.

I swallow hard. "You are seriously missing all the fun." Holding my breath, I stare at him, waiting, listening, hoping for a sign that he’s heard me.

Nothing.

Just like every other day, but I refuse to give up. “The weather’s turned warm,” I continue. “You’re missing the signs of spring you like so much. Including women wearing short-shorts, playing intramural volleyball in the park, your favorite.”

The door opens behind me and I turn to find Dr. Patel standing there. The expression on her kind face makes my stomach drop. I've become an expert at reading doctors.

Today, I see concern and exhaustion.

Neither is good.

"Ms. Noble," she says gently.

“Sydney,” I automatically correct her as I stand. "What happened?"

"Nothing new."

Relief crashes through me so quickly my knees almost give out. Nothing new.

Those two words have become the best and worst things I hear every day.

Nothing worse. Nothing better. Just suspended in the same holding pattern or waiting.

She gestures toward the hallway. "Can we talk?"

I already know what this conversation is about, and dread sinks heavy in my stomach as I follow her outside. “Be right back,” I call to Ben as I exit the door. The fluorescent lights in the hallway are too bright, and I squint against them.

"The hospital's financial department has been attempting to contact you," Dr. Patel says.

I stare at the floor. "Yeah." A beat passes.

"You haven't returned their calls."

"No."

Her sigh is soft and understanding, which somehow makes it worse.

She briefly touches my arm. "You need to get back to them. We know we’re going to have to explore long-term treatment possibilities.

" She’s talking about hospice, or if we’re lucky and Ben wakes up, rehabilitation and home care.

Every option comes with another terrifying number attached to it.

I know because I've spent the last six weeks memorizing them.

"What are we talking about now?" I ask quietly.

The doctor hesitates. “I don’t know the exact numbers, but the projected costs continue to increase."

Projected costs. I almost laugh.

That's a polite way of saying I should stop trying to tread water because there’s no longer a chance of avoiding drowning.

Yesterday I opened the latest bill from the hospital. Eighty-seven thousand dollars. I stared at the bill for nearly ten minutes before my mind could process the number.

Eighty-seven thousand dollars.

I dropped out of college, traded my dorm room for a tiny apartment in a bad part of town, and work two jobs to pay rent and bills. My savings account is empty and my credit cards are maxed out.

Yet somehow, the universe expects me to come up with eighty-seven fucking thousand fucking dollars.

"Right," I say. My voice sounds hollow.

Dr. Patel studies me. "You don't have to shoulder this alone."

I want to ask who exactly is volunteering to help. The hospital? The insurance company? I’ve spoken to both, and all they can offer are payment plans and reduced interest. Instead, I smile politely. "Thank you."

Dr. Patel squeezes my arm. “Reach out to friends and family. Ask someone to start a crowd-sourcing fund for you.”

I nod, avoiding her gaze. The few friends I have are just as broke as me. The same is true for Ben’s friends. And there is no family. It’s always just been Ben and me, ever since Dad died.

Dr. Patel walks off to see to other patients, and I return to Ben's room and sit back down. As the door clicks shut, the silence closes around me immediately. For several minutes, I just stare at the wall.

Eighty-seven thousand dollars.

The number loops through my head.

Again. And again.

My phone buzzes. I pull it out and find a text from my landlord saying if my rent isn’t paid by Friday, I’m evicted. It’s the third month I’m late.

I bark out a laugh that echoes sharply and slightly unhinged through the room.

Maybe next week my car will explode.

Maybe a meteor will hit my apartment.

I shove the phone back into my pocket and I look at my brother. Really look at him. This is my big brother who taught himself guitar by watching YouTube videos. My brother, who once convinced me he was dying because he had a cold. My brother, who’s never met a dog he didn't have to stop to pet.

My throat tightens. "I don't know what to do anymore." The words slip out before I can stop them. I haven't said them out loud until now. I've been too busy pretending I have everything under control. Pretending I'm strong and handling this.

The truth is much uglier.

I'm exhausted and terrified.

And for the first time since the accident, I don't know if my grit is enough. I squeeze Ben's hand. "Just wake up, okay?" My voice cracks. "Please."

The machines continue their steady rhythm, but Ben remains silent. His hand lies limp in mine, as I feel cracks breaking my resolve, and something dangerous creeping into them.

Hopelessness.

The feeling stays with me as I leave the hospital and go to my night job.

As I push my custodial cart through dark and empty offices, dread slithers deeper into my chest. It takes up so much space, I can’t breathe properly.

In the middle of vacuuming, my legs give out.

The low-pile synthetic carpet burns my cheek as I crash to the floor.

It’s designed for heavy foot traffic and rolling office chairs, not panic attacks.

With my heart racing like it wants to escape my chest, I roll onto my back and stare up at the bottom of a desk as I force myself to take deep inhales through my nose and long exhales through my mouth.

When I finally feel like I’m no longer dying, I notice a folded piece of paper jammed into a hinge of the keyboard tray of whoever’s desk I’m under.

When I started this job, I had to watch a video that harped on about touching nothing in the office other than the trash cans I’m supposed to empty.

Even if something is on the floor next to the receptacle, and looks like it’s meant to be trash, I still must not touch it.

During the weeks I’ve worked here, I’ve never once been tempted to pocket any of the cell phones, earrings, wallets, watches, and other valuables people left behind at their workstations.

But this scrap of paper intrigues me.

The way it’s stuck in the hinge makes it look like someone hid it on purpose. I can’t imagine any way it would have accidentally ended up in that position. I sit up so I can pry it loose and unfold it.

It’s only a quarter of a letter size big and features a picture of a glamorous, attractive woman, gazing seductively over her shoulder.

The words underneath the image make me catch my breath: Luxury Sugar Babies Auction.

Is this the answer to my eighty-seven-thousand-dollar problem?

Am I desperate enough to do this?

Am I brave enough?

And then I think about all the things Ben sacrificed for me after Dad passed.

He was only eighteen when he became my guardian, so I didn’t have to go into the foster care system.

My brother gave up his medical school dreams, including a full-ride scholarship for his bachelor's degree, and instead became a mechanic apprentice so he could raise his thirteen-year-old sister.

There’s no room for prudishness or judgement here. I owe my brother more than I can ever repay.

The answer to all three questions swirling around in my head must be yes.