4. Dima

FOUR

Dima

V alentin and Tali are both pouting at the fact Ana got away as they stop me driving away from the warehouse after we've completed our collection of a new shipment. I'm not her parent or keeper, she can do whatever she wants. Preferably away from me because she keeps fucking with my head. She left her bag so I'm assuming she's coming back, but it's been two days since the hellion has disappeared.

"She's probably dead."

My assumption is met with two scoffs like it's impossible.Backing away when Inessa calls so I don't get dragged into some bullshit family time, I leave the warehouse and go home without saying anything. The old Vartanovs would spit if they saw who they've turned into. It was different when Katya and the boys were kids, a certain amount of innocence allowed for less open violence. But now there are kids in the house and it's a caricature of a normal family.

The moon is the only light as I pull into the private road leading to my property. It highlights the hooded little shit trying to break into my fucking house. My knee knocks the kill switch under the engine automatically and the little fucker is too dumb or brave thinking they'd get away with it. They're trying to climb up the wall but keep losing their footing. Stopping the car before they hear me, I walk the rest of the way, taking my time. The resin drive mutes my steps without there being any loose stones to give me away and I hold my gun loosely. Whoever it is must be a teenager, the baggy hoodie doesn't give their figure away but they're at least a foot shorter than me.

There's no scream as I grab the back of their hoodie and I'd recognize the elbow swinging back at me in a hundred lifetimes. My other hand moves knowing I'll be able to write it off as an honest mistake and I dig the gun into her temple. There was an intruder, whoops didn't realize it was the pain in the ass I can't get rid of.

Her thrashing causes the hood to fall down, and my finger pauses on the safety. Ana always fucks with my head, makes me see shit that isn't real. The image doesn't change despite how many times I blink, and I harden. Her entire face is swollen, split lip and cheek, dried blood staining her nostrils and her eyes are red raw. Sweat beads at her hair line and her chest heaves as though she's struggling to draw in air.

Turning her to face me, I inspect the rest of her body like I can see through her clothes. There's something heavy in the front pocket of her hoodie and she quickly pushes her hands through, protectively holding it in place. She's not limping and the only skin I can see is her face and hands before she put them in her pocket. But I'm sure there were no scraped knuckles.

What the fuck? She's a fucking fighter, there are very few people I would bet on against her. Even then they'd probably all end up killing each other with being evenly matched. I gently hold her jaw and tilt her face up to see her neck. Fingerprints mixed with wavy lines. I've seen those fucking marks before, seen how they were caused and the aftermath.

People like my father love finding an Ana, a fighter who they can break down to feel better about themselves. She can fight, but she doesn't fight him so it's an ego boost. Sick fucking cunts. I want to kill her because she's annoying, whoever fucking hurt her has done it under the guise of a relationship. Choking is personal, passionate, it's why people fuck with their hands in the same position.

My hands itch to drag her but I force them to relax, some part of me doesn't want to add to her pain. She's accepting it, pretending it isn't there and I won't force her to acknowledge it. She doesn't argue as I herd her inside, that should set off alarm bells given her character, but I soften. Maybe they cut her tongue out and it's not a change in personality but a physical barrier. No, she's too fucking stubborn and would just mumble her insults.

There's still no fight as I guide her into the kitchen. She sits down and her eyes close as her chin drops to her chest. It's not the same as her creepy meditation, she's trying to breathe, and I make her a sandwich. It's not a conscious thought, my body moves, trying to look after the hellion because I'm having a mental break, and this isn't reality. Ana is in the same false reality as me and remains on the other side of island. She slowly lifts her head and I pause, staring at her eyes. The color looks fake with the redness, as though someone has taken a marker with the dullest brown and stamped over her irises. There's no depth or fluctuation like a normal eye.

Fucking devil woman.

Even battered and bruised she's not human and I push the plate towards her with a grunt while I try to make my mind work correctly instead of hyper fixating on her eyes. She pulls my attention from that thought and stares at the plate as though I've given her the moon with a small smile on her lips as she mumbles, "Thank you."

If I was an emotional person, I'd have tears in my eyes at how much gratitude she shows for two pieces of bread with some cheese and meat slapped between them.

A lump builds in my throat watching her hands pick it up so quick they're a blur but she forces herself to chew slowly. Her nimble fingers leave indents in the slices. Making another one while she eats so I'm not staring at her, I focus too much on the bread and filling. I remember those days, holding on to each morsel in fear of it disappearing. Fighting your body's urge to chew faster because you want to savor the feeling of having more than your own saliva in your mouth.

If she didn't keep fucking disappearing and was more responsible with her winnings, she could live comfortably. No one knows anything about her, little snippets will come out filled with the abuse she witnessed in a monotonous tone as though she's speaking about the weather but nothing with substance. Clearing the cobwebs out of my throat, I ask, "How long were you on the street for?"

Katya and I had six months, but Ana's must be more with how engrained her behaviors are.

I uncap a bottle of water and slide it across to her as I wait for her to answer. That little smile comes back, gratitude and innocence.

"Yulia failed at killing me two weeks after I turned sixteen, she disappeared the same day."

Eight fucking years of having nothing. She was a kid. But she laughs to herself, and her psychotic side comes out.

"I probably shouldn't have spent three years killing her favorite clients, I'd be a madam now."

Her sense of humor is fucked but my lips twitch in pride.

Swapping her empty plate for the new one, she hesitates and grips the edge of the dish with fake politeness.

"It's yours, I can't take your food."

Street rules because she spent eight fucking years on them, sixteen times more than I did. She's a crazy person but I feel protectiveness come over me without the usual violence surrounding her. Leaning back against the counter, I cross my arms over my chest, watching her like a painting.

"I don't eat at night, it's yours."

That small smile comes back.

I wait until she's a few bites in to start my interrogation in the hopes a full stomach will make her agreeable.

"Who did you piss off?"

It comes out wrong and she takes a deep breath, mourning the food in her hand before she sets it down. Pushing off the counter, I flatten my palms on the stone, dipping down so she can see I'm trying to help.

"Give me a name, I'll handle it."

She looks at me like I'm a kid telling her I've got a house in space.

But it works and she relaxes, starting to eat again. Her laugh doesn't come out as she winces and brushes me off.

"I'm sure you're very strong. I'm stronger and I don't need anyone to fight for me." She locks those fake-as-fuck eyes on me and her voice drops. "Especially ones I have chosen."

Who the fuck chooses to be a human punching bag?

She's already finished the full bottle of water and tips the empty bottle at her lips, searching for every sparse drop. Handing her another one, she guzzles it down again and the little pieces of skin between her bruises are pale as fuck. I wrote it off as it being due to the deep blues and purples, but the sweat and thirst have me moving towards her.

Holding the back of her head so she can't run away, I grip the front of her hoodie as bills float down. It's not the money that has my attention. Her torso matches her face, and the swelling is bad. Ana tenses in pain and my jaw clenches as I gently press my thumb over her tender abdomen. She's got internal fucking bleeding, but she tried to scale the building, not giving a fuck about her own health or life. Even with it in view, she's more focused on trying to collect the money that's fallen, and my tone is too rough.

"I'm not going to fucking steal from you." Softening my voice to get her to be a human again, my thumb strokes against her skin like it's any comfort. "Stay here, I'll get a doctor out."

Whoever she robbed has taken it out on her body. There's at least fifty grand on the floor and there's more still hidden in the pocket. Keeping one hand on the back of her head, I take her hand and walk her to the sofa. Her fingers are so delicate, the rough callouses on her palms contrast with the soft silk of her fingertips.

The weariness on her features doesn't match the silence as she allows me to lay her down and prop her feet up.The doctor we use for the fights answers on the second ring with sleep in his voice. "Where do you need me?"

He turns alert and fearful as I recount her injuries, and all the sleep is missing from his voice when he says, "You need to go to a hospital. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

Fucking asshole, he couldn't have given me any other advice on what to do. Picking her up with my arms under her knees and behind her head, I wince as she tenses. The urge to apologize sits on the tip of my tongue but I bite the muscle to stop it leaving.

It doesn't stop the ball of rage weakly slapping her sweaty hands at me and her usual anger is missing.

"Put me down, I'm not going anywhere with you."

Ana's argument ends on a wheeze, fucking stubborn shit. She can't just do shit normally, and she has to take the bloodiest path available.The slapping continues and I know she's in a bad state because this isn't the same woman who has held a knife to my throat on multiple occasions.

I attempt peacekeeping with the hellion as I gently sit her in the passenger seat of the car, uncaring that I haven't locked my front door.

"We're going to the hospital. I'd prefer to leave you in a ditch, so shut the fuck up before I change my mind."

The first real emotion flashes across her face not reaching those fake eyes as she freezes in terror and whispers, "No doctors."

What the fuck did they do to her? The way she speaks about her life is always removed; she's said she was protected by Yulia so she should be halfway normal.

Swallowing around a lump in her throat, she tries to walk through me when I'm blocking the door. When she sees I'm not going to move, she deflates and croaks, "It will be expensive."

That surge of protectiveness comes back even stronger, and I don't think before I offer, "I'll pay for it."

Because I've suddenly become the psycho's fucking bank as well as free housing. The money that fell out of her is enough to cover whatever expenses there'll be, but I don't take back my offer and close the door less gently than I was trying to.