“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “None of that matters. It’s all in the past.”
“Not for him.”
“No,” he concedes. “After today, it won’t be.”
Then he pulls out a knife.
“Last chance to be useful,printsessa.” He steps closer, tips my chin with the edge of the blade. “Come work for me. Be my woman on the inside. Together, we’ll make Yulian pay for all he did to us.”
The way he saysusmakes me recoil with nausea. Like he thinks we’re the same. Like we’ve both been scorned, abandoned, and because of that, we’re entitled to ripping his life apart.
Like I’d everwantto.
“If you won’t do it,” he adds, voice taking on a dangerous note, “then I’ll just have to do to you what I did to that bitch Kira. And I won’t spare the little Lozhkin inside you, either.”
My blood goes cold. “It’s not?—”
“Oh, it is,” he croons. “Don’t lie to me, Euphemia. I’ve been watching you both for longer than you’d care to know. You never let that pathetic blondie touch you, even after you moved back in with him. Of course, that’s discounting theotherlittle bastard you whelped.”
“You leave my son out of this,” I cry out. “He’s innocent.”
“No one is ever innocent.” The point of the blade dips into my throat. It draws a single, perfect drop of blood. I watch it slide down the edge of the knife, then fall, joining the dry stains on the hardwood. “Time to choose, Euphemia. Me or him.”
I think back to all the lies Yulian told me. To his betrayal, the way it still burns in my heart. I think back to all the happiness I thought we had, everything he threw away, everything he said he’d give me and my son: a home, a life, a family.
I think back to Brad, too. His cruel words, his crueler fists. I think about how it’s Yulian’s fault that he found me, Yulian’s fault that I’m back with him, Yulian’s fault that my son won’t speak to me. That he’s had to learn what a terrible man he comes from.
I think.
Then I spit in Desya’s face.
He startles back. The knife drops from my throat as he wipes at his cheek with the back of his hand.
“I willneverbetray him,” I hiss. “And I will never, ever, choose you.”
Desya’s expression twists. Anger, cold and deep. “Wrong call,” he warns. “And for that little stunt, I’ll make it hurt.”
Tears gather in my eyes. Not from regret—there was never any other choice. But from sadness.
Sadness, for the son I’m about to leave motherless.
Sadness, for the baby that will never have a chance to be born.
Sadness, for the family I haven’t seen in five years and never will again. For my friends, my coworkers, all the people I’ve ever loved.
And for Yulian, too.
I close my eyes. Tears stream down my cheeks, warm and salty and inevitable.
I’m sorry, Eli.
I’m sorry, baby.
I’m sorry, everyone.
Then, as the tip of the knife grazes my throat again…
“I’m sorry, Yulian,” I whisper.
