Twilight Sins (Kulikov Bratva Book 1)

“The game is called Truth or Dare,” Yakov says with a condescending scowl.

“Nope. It’s called Truth or Truth. No dares, just answers.”

What he doesn’t know is that I just made it up. If Yakov won’t tell me anything the old-fashioned way—you know, via normal human conversation—then maybe I can coax a few things out of him with coercion. Fight fire with fire.

Or something along those lines.

He runs a hand along his jawline and leans back in his chair. “If this doesn’t end with your clothes on the floor, I’m not interested.”

I suck in a breath. He wants to see me naked. Maybe this is a real date.

I bury that thought deep, deep down inside. It doesn’t matter. I may believe Yakov is telling the truth about me being in danger, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to hop back into bed with him. He lied to me the night we met. Several times! I’ve been lied to enough in my life. I’m not going to let myself be fooled again.

“Fine. Then you’ll never know anything more about me.”

“Is that right?” Amusement dances in his eyes.

“You don’t believe me?”

He has to work to keep his mouth from tilting into a smile. “No. No, I don’t.”

I shrug. “I’ve picked up a lot of tips from you on how to be moody and mysterious. I think you’ll be surprised. I’m a steel trap now.”

His chin dimples as he nods, not at all convinced. “Sure, solnyshka. Whatever you say.”

There’s that damned nickname again. It twists my insides in ways I do not approve of. “What does that even mean?”

“I’d tell you, but I’m too moody and mysterious.” He pours a glass of wine and offers it to me.

I take it and slouch down in my chair. “I may not have a lot of practice with good dates, but I know all about living in a tense house full of secrets. I can do the silent treatment for days. I have years of experience there.”

Yakov frowns. His hand tightens on his glass.

For some reason, it bothers him that my ex was an asshole. The same way it bothered him that Sergey was drunk and handsy when he showed up late to our date.

Yakov told me when we met that the men in my life needed to treat me better. He then proceeded to trick me into coming back to his house where he gave me the best sex of my life and then held me hostage, so I’m not totally convinced he knows what “better” means, but still—it was to keep me safe, right? He’s an enigma and I’m desperate to know more.

I just hope my plan works.

He drums his finger on the rim of his glass a few times. Then he sits up and meets my eyes. I melt under his attention, but try not to show how much him being close affects me.

“I’ll play your little game, Luna.”

Yes!

“But I go first.”

I frown. “You’re no fun.”

“I never claimed to be.” He leans in even closer. I swear he must be able to hear me swallow. “Did your ex-boyfriend abuse you?”

I expected the question, but it still steals my breath. It’s the first time anyone has asked me outright. Kayla suspects, but I don’t like to talk about it. About him. Some things are better left in the past.

“Speaking of ‘no fun.’” I laugh, but it sounds hollow. “My ex was a boatload of no fun. But he never hit me.”

Yakov’s jaw flexes. “That’s not what I asked.”

Instinctively, I wrap my arms around myself, though it’s pleasantly warm in here. “In some ways, I think it would have been easier if he had hit me. That’s black-and-white, you know? I know what physical abuse looks like. Everything else was kind of a gray area. Like when he isolated me from my friends and family or controlled who I could and couldn’t text. It happened slowly at first. Then the next thing I knew, he controlled every aspect of my life. Where I went, who I saw, what I ate.”

I should stop. I’ve said enough to answer the question.

But now that I’m finally saying it out loud, it’s hard to stop.

My eyes burn with tears. I squeeze them closed and take a shaky breath. “The sad part is that I wanted to make him happy. When things were good, Benjy could be so loving and sweet. I liked that side of him. But when I messed up—when I came home too late or dressed in something he didn’t like or asked him too many questions about where he’d been—things got bad. Somehow, he made me think all of it was my fault.”

There was so much shame. I was ashamed of the way I made him behave. If he could be so nice to everyone else but treat me like shit, then it must mean there was something wrong with me.

Even when I got away, the shame lingered. It whispered in my ear all the time. Why did you stay with him for so long? Why didn’t you leave?

“When did you figure out it wasn’t?” Yakov asks.

His voice burns through the fog of memories and shame. It brings me back to the here and now.

I open my eyes, a smile pasted on my face. “I believe that is your second question. It’s my turn.”

He nods slowly, the picture of calm—but when I look down, I see that he’s holding his glass so tightly his knuckles are white.

He probably thinks I’m pathetic. A man like Yakov doesn’t know anything about being overpowered by someone else. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be made small.

It doesn’t matter, though. Not when I’m about to get the answer to the only question that matters.

I take a deep breath and meet his eyes. “Who wants to hurt me, Yakov?”

He peels his fingers off of his glass with obvious effort. “I can’t tell you that.”

I don’t know why I expected anything different. Of course Yakov isn’t going to play by the rules of some stupid game I made up. Still, I hope…

“You can’t say because you don’t know the answer?”

He shakes his head. “I know exactly who it is.”

“But you still won’t tell me?” My hopes crash and burn. “You know who it is, but you won’t tell me.”

He looks at me without any sign of guilt or shame. I don’t think he’s capable of such basic human things.

I shove back from the table just to put some space between us. I don’t want him to see the angry tears welling in my eyes. “That’s why you wanted to go first. Because you knew all along you weren’t going to play. You let me go on and on about one of the worst times of my life, and you knew the entire time you weren’t going to answer any of my questions.”

“If you had asked me something that wouldn’t put you in danger, I would have answered.”

“I don’t believe you!”

He shrugs. “I’m not going to risk your life for some silly game, Luna. Be mad about that if you want. I don’t care.”

I am mad about it. He’s infuriating.

Even if I have to admit, deep down, how sweet it is that he wants to protect me.

But no. No!

“You keep getting away with that,” I snap. “You refuse to answer my questions or tell me anything and then I end up thinking you’re a good guy for it. It’s not fair! You have to tell me something. Something like… like… Oh, Hope said something about working for your dad before she worked for you.”

He tenses. It’s subtle, but at some point over the last few days, I’ve become familiar enough with Yakov to read the tilt of his shoulders.

“Can you tell me anything about that or will it somehow put me in danger, too?”

“It won’t put you in danger. It’s just a shitty story.”

“Right, and mine was all rainbows and sunshine,” I mutter sarcastically.

Yakov assesses me, his brows pinched together. Finally, he blows out a breath. “He died.”

I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn’t. “I’m really sorry for your loss… but there has to be more to that story.”

“Storytelling is not one of my many talents.” He shrugs.

“Shocker,” I mumble. “You’re usually so chatty.”

He smirks. Then it melts off and he looks away, tension creeping back into his face. “It was five years ago. The anniversary of his death was actually the night you and I met. I was at the restaurant to meet my brother for dinner.”

My mouth falls open. “I had no idea. If I’d known⁠—”

“If you’d known, then you wouldn’t have been a very good distraction.”

“You said it was a shitty night. I think you might have undersold it,” I say. “You could have told me.”

“I held my father as he took his last breath. It’s not a day I like to reminisce about.”

My hand instinctively reaches towards his. I stop myself, my fingers drumming on the table instead. “Yakov, I’m… I’m so sorry.”

He shrugs like it doesn’t matter, but I see it now. The weight of it hanging on his shoulders. The dark cloud over his head.

“It’s not the same, but my dad died, too.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this. I guess to make him feel better, if that’s even possible. “He left when I was little. I didn’t know him at all. By the time I wanted to get to know him, he was gone. A car accident.”

“He missed out,” Yakov whispers.

I’ve heard a lot of responses to that story ranging from pity to anger on my behalf.

Yakov’s is my favorite.

“Can I ask what happened to your dad?” I press, greedy for more.

“He was murdered. Shot in the chest.”

My mouth falls open. “But you said you held him when he died. You were… you were there?”

He gives me a sad smile.

Now, I can’t stop myself—I reach across the table and grab his hand. As soon as I do, I understand why Gregory turned into a puddle as soon as Yakov touched him. He’s warm and strong and I’ve never felt safer in my life.

I curl both of my hands around his and run my thumbs over his knuckles. I want to map out the feel of him even as my heart breaks for everything he has been through.

“I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you. No one should have to see something like that.”

“I was trained for that moment.” He’s staring at our hands, but he doesn’t pull away. “My siblings were not. They both saw it, too. I should have kept them from that.”

“That’s not something anyone plans for. You couldn’t have known.” I take a shaky breath. “I know I haven’t known you very long, but I can tell that you take care of the people around you. If I can see that, I’m sure they can, too.”

They’d be stupid not to.

“It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.”

I hear what he’s saying, but I don’t believe him. Seeing your father die in front of your eyes isn’t the kind of thing people wash their hands of. You carry it with you always.

I stroke my thumb over the back of his, sparks trailing my touch. “Thank you for telling me that, Yakov.”

“You like hearing tragic stories?”

“I like getting to know you,” I correct softly. “There’s so much more I don’t know, but if you say that the information is dangerous for me, I’ll try to respect that. It’s hard for me to trust people—to trust men, especially. But I don’t think you’d ever hurt me.”

Without really meaning to, I lean closer. Our knees touch, my leg slipping between his. My heart is hammering so hard it’s difficult to catch my breath. “Would you?”

He looks up and there’s a gold sunburst hidden in the green streaking through his eyes. I lean even closer to get a better look.

Suddenly, he grabs my chin. The rough pad of his thumb brushes across my lower lip. I release a shaky exhale as his finger hooks under my jaw. He tilts my face up like he’s studying me, admiring me from every angle.

I watch as the lightness in his eyes goes dark. His grip tightens until I whimper. I feel his breath against my cheek as he says, “Someone always gets hurt.”

Without another word, Yakov lets me go and walks out of the dining room.