PAVEL'S POV
I stand in front of the bathroom mirror. Gray jeans and a black T-shirt lie folded on the counter next to the sink. They disgust me. I can't remember the last time I wore jeans—probably more than a decade ago.
It's not the garments themselves, but the memories they carry. Digging through heaps of discarded clothes, mostly jeans, searching for something that fit. Everything was torn, dirty. I didn't have money for laundry before putting them on. People avoided me on the subway, their disdain almost tangible, making my shame nearly unbearable.
The moment I started earning serious money through underground fights, I traded my entire second-hand wardrobe for slacks and dress shirts. Eventually, suits became standard. As time passed, I upgraded everything—expensive watches, accessories, tailored threads. It was all a way to forget what I had been for the first twenty years of my life. Trash. Someone the world would turn away from, someone invisible.
Funny thing is, even after nearly fifteen years, I can still smell it—the stench, whether from the clothes or the half-rotted food I scavenged from dumpsters behind restaurants. It clings to memory.
I study my face in the mirror: small scars across my temples, the bridge of my nose, my chin. Faded now, but each mark tells its story. How many times has my nose been broken? Seven? More, probably.
I was barely eighteen when I started fighting for money. At first, it was survival. Later, it became something else entirely. The crowd that came to watch, chanting my name, fuelled a deep, aching need inside me—to belong. Somewhere. Anywhere. Their excitement made me feel less alone.
I don't know why I said yes when Yuri approached me after a fight and offered a position in the Bratva. Maybe I wanted to reconnect with my heritage. Russian kids were non-existent in foster care. By the time I aged out, I'd almost forgotten my mother tongue. The Bratva helped me regain it, though it no longer feels like my first language, nor does English.
I trace the prominent scar on the left side of my jaw. No matter how hard I try to hide the past, some reminders, visible or invisible, never disappear.
Is that why I let Asya stay? Maybe I recognized a kindred spirit trying to outrun her past, someone I could help because I know how it feels to have no one. But that's only part of the reason. The truth is far more selfish. I've been alone all my life, and I've adapted. It's the way I function. Yet when Asya stumbled into my life, I realized how lonely I truly was, and how much I crave her presence. I relish it. I even agreed to keep her survival a secret from her family.
I pick up the jeans, one of five pairs I ordered online yesterday after realizing the effect suits had on her. I can't keep walking around in pyjamas all day. I definitely can't wear them to the store.
I take a deep breath and slide them on.