Fractured Souls (Perfectly Imperfect, #6)

by Neva Altaj

Careful not to touch her, I step away from the bed, but the girl suddenly leaps toward me. Her arms come around my neck, squeezing it in a vice-like grip, while her legs wrap around my waist. I stand next to the bed, stunned, with the girl clinging to me like a baby koala. She tucks her face into the crook of my neck and is humming something. Now what? Should I try putting her back on the bed? Or should I just wait until she decides to get down?

She takes a deep breath and grabs my shirt off the floor near her feet. Stepping onto the edge of it she uses both hands to pull on the material, throwing her whole weight into her task, until the shirt rips. Then, she starts shredding it. I watch her in amazement. I thought she was meek and delicate, but as I observe her glorious rage, I realize how very wrong I was. There is fire in her and fierce life. The people who hurt her, who broke her spirit—they haven’t banished it completely. And I will find every single one of them and make them pay.

“I hate them! I hate them so much!” she roars and looks up at me. “And you? Why the fuck are you just sitting there? How can you simply be watching me have a mental breakdown and do nothing?” She throws a torn piece of material in my face and screams in frustration when I don’t make a move. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” She places her hands on my chest and shoves me. “Shouldn’t you try to calm me down?” “No,” I say. “No? You’ll just watch me fall apart?” she shoves at me again. Then one more time. “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.”

Making lunch while only wearing someone else’s T-shirt and nothing underneath is weird. Especially in a kitchen belonging to a man I don’t really know. Weird, but at the same time, liberating. I focus on the task in front of me while a faint melody plays in the back of my mind.

“Why didn’t you call my brother and get rid of me?” I ask. “Because I understand the need to deal with your shit yourself. And because I know how it feels to have people get rid of you.” The arm around my waist tightens. “I would never do that to anyone.”

“All right, mishka. Let’s give it a few more days.” “Does it mean something? Mishka?” “A bear cub.” He calls me a bear cub. What a strange endearment. I turn my head to look at him. “Is it because I like clinging to you?” “Yeah.” He lifts his hand as if he’s going to touch my face, but pulls back. “Let’s go to sleep.”

“Was it only one shipment?” I ask. “Or does Dushku still work with them?” “Just one. Shortly after that, Ajello took care of the Irish because the idiot Fitzgerald kidnapped his wife. Ajello went ballistic.” “He killed Fitzgerald?” “Filleted him with a knife himself.” Roman grins. “I don’t know the man, but I like him already.”

“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?” “No, not really. You think that girl is yours?” “I’ve known her for a week.” “That’s not what I asked.”

“Okay.” He nods. “Take a shower. You have three pairs of pajamas—they’re all the same so you don’t have to choose. Put away your new clothes. Eat. Wait for me. In bed, not on the floor in front of the door.” I get down off his lap and watch him leave, then head into the bathroom to have a shower.

My insights twist as I absorb his words.

“Can I watch?” I ask hesitantly, simultaneously dreading and craving the idea. “Every second of it, mishka.”

“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.