Fractured Souls (Perfectly Imperfect, #6)

by Neva Altaj

I carry the girl into the kitchen. She doesn’t let go while I get a bottle of water from the fridge and walk toward the cupboard to take a glass. I do it with one hand since I’m still holding her with the other one, afraid she might slip and fall.

“Now, onto the second issue. What the fuck is wrong with you all—collecting random unconscious women and taking them home with you?” All heads turn toward Sergei. “Oh, don’t look at me!” He laughs, “I got mine years ago and I’m done.”

“She wasn’t surprised and surmised that the girl has developed an attachment to you,” he says. “Apparently, some assault victims tend to stay away from men. Especially strangers, but sometimes even family members. Others, however, form a strong bond to whomever has saved them. They latch onto their protector, even if it’s a male.”

“Shit.” I crouch down beside her, intending to scoop her up, but as soon as I reach for her, she leaps into my arms. Wrapping herself around me like a koala bear again, she buries her face in the crook of my neck.

“I’m so sorry for leaving you alone,” I whisper and sit down on the edge of the bed. There is a bundled blanket next to me, so I reach for it and wrap it around the girl’s shoulders. She doesn’t move, just clings onto me, still shaking. “You’re safe.” I place my hand on her nape and stroke her back with my other one in what I hope is a soothing motion. “You’re safe.”

She looks down again and slowly places her hand on my naked chest. The tip of her finger moves across my collarbone where my tattoos start, then slowly traces downward. It’s a barely there touch, outlining the shapes inked on my skin. “I’m afraid I can’t remove these, mishka,” I say. Her eyes lift back to mine, and as she watches me, the corners of her lips curve upward ever so slightly. “Is that a smile?” She shrugs.

“You’re not falling apart, Asya.” I reach out and trace the line of her chin with my thumb. “You’re pulling yourself together.”

“I’ll never be the person I was before,” she whispers. “No. You won’t.” I lightly pinch her chin. “And that’s okay. They’ll love you just the same. What happened to you, changed you, Asya. It would change anyone. Irrevocably. You need to accept the person you’ve become. You’re still you. Changed, yes, but that shouldn’t keep you from the people who care about you.”

I sniff, trying to stifle the urge to cry. He’s asking the questions in a way that makes it easier for me to answer. He’s not asking me to pick, which would raise my anxiety, but rather asking me about facts.

Is that why I let Asya stay? Maybe, I recognized a kindred spirit trying to outrun the past and wanted to help. After all, I know how it feels to not have anyone to turn to. But I’m afraid that it’s only part of the reason. My true motivation is much, much more selfish. I’ve been alone all my life and have gotten used to it. It’s the way I function. But after Asya stumbled onto my path, I realized how lonely I’d been and how much I enjoy having her here, in my home. I relish the comfort her presence brings me. Crave it, in fact, so much so that I agreed to hide the reality that she’s alive from her family.

“I don’t regret it. I should. But I don’t.” Her arm comes around my neck as she presses her cheek to mine. “Does that make me a bad person?” “No. You defended yourself from a sexual predator who violated you in the most terrible way. In fact, you did him a favor.” “A favor?” “Yes. Because if you hadn’t killed him, I would have. And believe me, whatever you did wouldn’t even come close to what I would have done to him.” I squeeze the back of her neck lightly. “Come show me what you prepared. It’s the first time someone has cooked for me.”

“Have you ever met someone who feels like they are a missing piece of you?” I ask. “A piece you didn’t even know you were missing until they stumbled into your life?”

“It will get better,” he says. “I promise.” “You don’t know that.” “I do. You’re a fighter. It’ll take time, but you will get better. Come on, let’s get you washed up. Okay?”

I wonder if she was so quiet before, or if it’s a consequence of everything that’s happened to her. But there’s still fire left in her. It might be suppressed deep inside, but it’s there. Whoever hurt her, didn’t extinguish it completely.

He looks up and scans me from head to toe. “Who the fuck are you and what have you done with Pavel?”

“Why did you let me stay here?” I ask. Pasha sighs and places his chin on the top of my head. “I don’t know. Why did you want to stay?” I’ve been asking myself that question for weeks. “I don’t know, either.”

He doesn’t look like a man you’d want to ask on a date, but rather someone you’d want to have by your side when walking in a dark alley. Though, if someone asked me how a perfect man should look, I would point to the one standing before me.

I can’t fight the urge any longer. The need to see her play is too strong, so I turn around and stare. She might just be wearing plain blue jeans and a navy blouse, but it feels like I’m in a damn concert hall, watching the star pianist putting on a show. The way she holds her body, the movements of her hands flying elegantly over the keys, and the confidence in her posture are all stunning. But what takes me aback the most is the expression on her face. Joy. Elation. Happiness. She is smiling so widely that it feels like her whole being is glowing. I can’t move. I can hardly breathe. Seeing her like this is as if I’m meeting her for the first time. There’s nothing in common between this maestro and the frightened girl I let stay in my place, the one who still follows me around the apartment, gripping the hem of my shirt in her hand.

Rage boils up through my insides at the thought of this side of her being smothered. I’m going to make the people who broke her spirit pay. In blood.

“I’m so sorry you lost your friend.” His hand comes up and cups my cheek. “Everybody leaves, mishka. One way or another,” he says, stroking the side of my face with his thumb. “It’s only a matter of time.”

“I will find the people who hurt you. And they will scream for mercy as I break them like they tried to break you. Their deaths will not be quick.”

“I’m scared,” I whisper. “I’m afraid it’ll happen again. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to go outside and walk down the street by myself without flinching every time someone passes close to me.” “You will.” He resumes stroking my hair. “I promise you that.”

He takes a step back and I follow. Then another one. And another one. It does feel like some strange dance—him holding me close and walking backward—and suddenly, I feel the urge to laugh. So, I do. People around us must think we’re nuts, but I don’t care. I keep my gaze glued to Pasha’s as I follow him, laughing. It’s so good to feel joy again. He watches me with a small smile on his face and moves his thumb to my lips, stroking them. “I wish you’d laugh more often,” he says. “I’ll try.”

Sometimes, I wish she’d just call her brother to come and get her, because having her so close all the time, makes me feel like I’m going to combust. Just as often, though, I’m flooded with an urge to find her brother myself . . . and dispose of him before he has an opportunity to take her away from me.

As I’m heading down the hallway, the kitchen door on the other end bursts open, and a petite brunette in a paint-stained dress runs out. Her hands are laden with piroshki, and she is struggling to make sure none fall in her haste. At the top of the stairs, a little dark-haired girl starts jumping up and down and clapping her hands. Her sweet giggles echo off the hallway’s high walls. Roman’s wife and daughter. Nina Petrova sprints up the stairwell, nearly reaching the top when the kitchen door swings open again and Igor—the cook—wobbles out, shouting obscenities in Russian. If Roman catches him cursing in front of his little girl, the old cook will be as good as dead. I shake my head and stride toward the front door as the chorus of Igor’s yelling and female laughter rings behind me.

He touches his forehead to mine and closes his eyes. “You’ve been hurt.” “I know.” I move my hand along his jaw and bury my fingers in his wet strands. “You’re eighteen,” he says. “I’m too old for you, mishka.” I bite his lower lip lightly. “Bullshit.” His hand at the back of my neck grips my hair. His breath fans my face as he exhales, and he opens his eyes to look at me. “Asya,” he says into my lips, then seizes them with his own.

“We’ll fix you up, mishka,” he says through gritted teeth and pulls my face closer. “We will piece together every broken shard, I promise you. And then, we’ll fucking annihilate the bastards who hurt you.”

“No one will hurt you ever again, mishka,”

I feel the kiss land on my lips. “There is nothing dirty about you,” he says. “You are the most beautiful, pure thing I’ve ever encountered, Asya”—another kiss—“and I will erase every bad memory you have, if you’ll let me.”

“I wish my first time was with you,” I whisper. “It will be.” “Pasha, you know very well—” His hand covers my lips. “Your first time is going to be with me,” he says next to my ear. “All that from before, it doesn’t count. Do you understand?”

“Pasha, ma che fai?” I look up from the spaghetti I was just going to place into the pot. Asya is standing on the other side of the kitchen island, staring at my hands in horror. “You do not break spaghetti!” She walks around the island, shaking her head. “They’re too long. Can’t fit into the pot,” I say. “No, no, no, you can never do that.” She takes the spaghetti noodles out of my hands and throws them into the trash can in the corner.

“You are the strongest person I know,” he says and presses his mouth to mine.

“You are the purest thing I’ve ever touched in my life,” I say holding her gaze, “and I will never, ever hurt you.”

“To have a family. Someone who’ll stay with you, no matter what. Even if you make a mistake. Even when you’re angry. Someone who’ll be in your corner even when they know you’re wrong. To have someone who is . . . yours?”

“You need to let her go. If you don’t, neither you nor her will know if she’s with you because she loves you, or if it’s because she’s afraid to leave.” “You don’t understand,” I say. “I’ve never had anyone, Roman. Until her. I can’t imagine my life without her anymore.”

A heavy feeling settles over me, and I close my eyes. I don’t want a sweet, handsome guy. I want Pasha. Just the thought of any other man touching me makes me sick to my stomach. Acid rises up my throat, so I fan my face, hoping the nausea will pass. It doesn’t. It only gets worse. I jump off the bed and dash to the bathroom, barely managing to reach the toilet in time. Sienna runs in after me and lifts my hair away from my face as I empty the contents of my stomach. When I’m done, I slump to the floor next to the toilet and stare at the ceiling. “I can’t even think about other men without vomiting, Sienna,” I whisper.

“When Pasha found me, I was a wreck, Arturo. Both my soul and my mind . . . fractured. Pasha pieced me back together. And my heart yearns for him because he is the glue that keeps all my broken parts whole. Please, try to understand.”

“Of course it wasn’t me. I can’t even stomach the idea of touching any man other than you.” His jaw clenches and he brings his forehead to rest against mine. “You’re staying,” he bites out. “I know I’m selfish. And I know you deserve better. But I don’t really give a fuck, Asya. You are staying. And if anyone tries to take you away from me, I’m going to fucking kill them on the spot.”

The image is of a thorn-covered branch, done in black ink, its sharp spines pointing in all directions. Above it is a red bird in flight, its fluffy wings spread wide. It’s beautiful and sad at the same time. I place the tip of my finger on the design and trace the shape of the bird. “It’s you,” Pasha says and brushes my cheek with the back of his other hand. “The bird?” “Yes.” I look up from the tattoo and find his eyes watching me. “There’s only one bird,” I say. “Where are you?” “I’m not there. Just you.” “Why?” He dips his head to whisper in my ear. “Because there was nothing left of me after you flew away, mishka.”

“The feeling of never being close enough.” His other hand comes to the back of my neck, squeezing lightly. “I have the need to somehow absorb you into my chest, so you’ll always be with me. Safe from harm. Only mine. Forever.” I open my mouth to say something, but he silences me by slamming his lips to mine. “I love you to the point of madness, Asya,” he whispers against my mouth, “and I really need you to be sure. Please.”

With my free hand, I take one side of the tie that’s hanging loose over my front, wrap it around my neck twice and tuck the end into Pasha’s palm resting on my collarbone. “Last week, I tried helping Arturo with his tie. I adore my brother, and I know he wouldn’t ever do anything to hurt me. My hands were shaking so much that I asked him to do it himself instead.” I lift my eyes to meet Pasha’s. “Do you see my hands shaking now?” “No, baby,” he says in a strangled voice. “Every single part of me is in love with you, Pasha. My body. My mind.” I wrap his fingers around the end of the tie and, keeping my hand over his, I pull on it. The silky material tightens around my neck. “Even my subconscious knows how great and unconditional that love is. So, yes. I’m sure.”

“I have only one home.” She lifts her face to look right into my eyes and smiles. “You. You are my home now.”

I feel arms wrapping around my waist as Pasha leans on me from behind, but I don’t turn. I can’t take my eyes off the four extra jewelry boxes holding identical rings. “Why?” I whisper. His hold around my middle tightens. “Because I needed you to understand.” “What, Pasha?” “That as far as I’m concerned, you can’t make a wrong decision, baby.” A kiss lands at the top of my head. “Even if it’s just picking the cereal flavor.”

I blink in confusion. Pasha is dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt. He knows it doesn’t bother me when he wears a suit, so why did he come in jeans? I turn my head to my brother, roving my eyes over his jeans and a Henley shirt until I reach his face. “Your Russian arranged the dress code for the wedding,” he says as he keeps walking.

Slowly, his gaze glides over my chest to my stomach. He takes a deep breath and lowers himself to his knees in front of me. His big hands are shaking as he takes the hem of my top, pushes it up, and kisses just above my navel. Then, he presses his cheek to my midriff and, wrapping his arms around me, starts humming a lullaby.

“I’d say you’re in week six. They both seem perfectly fine,” he says, then looks at Asya. “And you seem fine, too.” I blink in confusion. “Both? Both Asya and the baby?” “No. Both babies.” My head snaps to the side, staring at Asya who’s looking at the monitor with a wide smile on her face. “Are you sure?” she whispers. “Yes,” the doc says at the same time as I say, “No!” They both turn to look at me. “Do that again.” I point my finger at the ultrasound machine while terror seizes me on the inside. “I’m pretty sure I know how to count!” the doc exclaims and slams the ultrasound printout against my chest, pointing his other finger at it. “One. Two.” I grab the front of his shirt and get in his face. “Again!” “Pasha?” Asya grips my forearm. “What’s going on?” I release Doc and cup her face between my palms. “It’s dangerous, mishka. And you’re so tiny. What if something happens?” Asya presses her finger over my lips. “I’m going to be fine. There are twins in almost every generation of my family, and no one ever had any problems. Don’t panic.” “I’m not panicking. I’m not.” I throw a look over my shoulder at the doc. “Should she be admitted to a hospital? I’ll drive straight there.” “Pasha.” Asya pulls at my shirt. “Can she walk?” I continue. “No, I better carry her there.” “I’m not going to a fucking hospital!” Asya roars into my ear, grabs my chin, and turns my head to face her. “Let’s thank the doctor and head home.” “Mishka . . .” “I wouldn’t advise enraging a woman pregnan...