Years of dreaming, memorizing, planning it all so she'd pay for every piece of me and Berna she destroyed.
When I reach the door, I glance once more at the swarm of soldiers crawling through the space. I have to admit—I'm impressed. My nephew came with a whole damn army. Over the years, with Sarin's help, I'd managed to keep a line of communication open with him, and though I knew Marzena was planning something, I didn't have a date or a plan.
Sarin anticipated she'd strike and that our best weapon was Casimir, who could intercept her movements fastest. Even though he was an hour late—an hour Roxanne spent bleeding—it could've been worse.
I push open the door and look toward the only lit spot, where the two chairs Roxanne and I sat in still stand. Marzena isstrapped to one, a bandage wrapped around her leg where Cas shot her when he made his entrance. It's a superficial wound, but for someone who's spent her whole life getting off on causing others pain, she doesn't know how to handle her own.
"You sure those legs are gonna hold you?" my nephew asks from where he leans against the wall.
I look at him, at the man he's become. Six foot five, broad shoulders, that black hoodie hanging off him, close-cropped hair. His eyes are green, and for the first time in seventeen years, I step close and pull him into my arms.
His body goes rigid, but then he pats my back lightly, and I smile.
He was eight when I left Warsaw, and the guilt of leaving him, just a kid, with this woman will eat at me for the rest of my life.
"I survived, Damien," he tells me, like he's reading my mind.
"Now it's time we actually live, Cas," I say back because I know neither of us has allowed ourselves that luxury, not with Marzena and her secrets hanging over us.
I turn toward my dear mother, who glares at us. Beads of sweat dot her forehead, and I have to admit, this is my favorite scent. Dust, cement, and her fear.
"I should've made sure to get rid of you the day you were born," she spits at Cas, who just stares at her with bored indifference. "You were, are, and always will be a mistake on this Earth."
That's when I step in.
Maybe Casimir doesn't feel emotions like the rest of us, but he's smart. He understands them conceptually, and even if he can't experience them, I won't let her do to him what she did to Berna and me.
"For someone who's gonna need to regrow layers of skin just so I can peel them off again, you talk way too much," I tell her.
"You really think you'll do it? You still haven't figured out that you're too weak. All you ever wanted was love. A little affection, a few feelings. You'll put a bullet in my head in less than an hour."
I look at her.
Because she's right about what I wanted. Her love. Her approval. That's why I learned to hold a blade. For the appreciation in her eyes, I memorized every layer of skin and muscle in the human body. For a single stroke of her hand moving hair from the left side of my forehead to the right, I drove the first blade into a soldier who'd failed her.
Only to realize in the end that I'd been waiting for her to slip me some of her love when she was actually empty of it.
I reach for the blade at my back and lift it, running my finger lightly along the edge.
"Was it worth it?" I ask her.
She knows what I'm talking about. All the pain, all the blood, all the humiliation I endured so she could collect the necessary secrets. So she could taste from the chalice of power that was never in her hands and never would be. Not all the secrets, not all the blackmail would've brought her the crown. The Council would've preferred to dismantle the organization rather than put a woman in charge, but they let her believe she had a shot. They manipulated her to this point.
"Every single moment," she answers with a smile. "You know how I grew up, Damien? With two older brothers who passed me around to their friends so we could scrape together some cash. That's when I saw what it meant to have power, to decide, to be the one laughing instead of the one begging. When I met your father, I thought he felt the same. The same thirst to stopgroveling at others' feet. But no. Our money, our status, their votes going to you—it's all because of me."
But at what cost?I want to ask, though I already know she won't care. For her, all the evil is justified.
When I'm just inches from her, I bend down—even though my legs scream they're about to give—just to be at her level.
"I'll make sure our wait is worth it too," I tell her.
"I want to be the one who sends her to the other side," Cas says from the corner, and I look at him.
He doesn't need to justify it. I see in his eyes the reason he wants this revenge: my sister's name is written in bold there.
Because she was the greatest victim. Years of abuse. Years of crying. Years where, little by little, she couldn't scream anymore. Couldn't hope.
When I was seven, I remember finding her one night crying. She cried so quietly, only her body trembled, and I went over and wrapped my arms around her. All she whispered was, "Everything hurts," and I didn't know what to do except put my hands around her and hold on, terrified she might shatter right before my eyes.
