And from the low, amused laugh behind me, I know he let me go.
Which is good.
Very good, in fact.
Because my body is lit up with goosebumps, heat tightens between my thighs, my breath comes too fast, my heart beats wildly, as though it’s trying to force its way out of my chest.
Yeah.
I needed out.
What’s strange is that the guilt… the guilt for letting him coax all of that out of me, doesn’t come.
Or maybe it does, just not with its usual force.
Perhaps it’s because I’m almost running down the stairs, surrounded by people, unable to lose myself in the void of my own thoughts, my wrongly wired brain given no space to spiral.
I don’t know what he thinks he’s doing here. I don’t know how he imagines I’ll share a bed with him.
But I know one thing for sure—when Markev decides something is his, he doesn’t relinquish it. He wears the world down until it complies.
So if he’s decided we’re sharing a room, he’ll fight for it tooth and nail.
And I know I’ll lose that battle.
The thought sparks something dangerous in me. Perhaps this is the universe offering the perfect opportunity to finally end him.
And yet…
Guilt wells suddenly.
The guilt isn’t for allowing him to touch me, it’s from the thought of killing him.
Of hurting him.
Which is another level of fucked entirely.
This isn’t the same as before. It’s different now. When I tried to kill him, when I sabotaged him, when I nearly blew him apart, I believed he’d committed an unforgivable crime.
But that was a lie.
I am a monster, and I don’t pretend otherwise. But I don’t kill innocents, and no matter how many times I tell myself that a Markev deserves to die simply for being born into a fucked up family, some part of me still resists that logic.
Sins belong to the one who commits them, not to the blood they were born into.
Dinner happens eventually. We end up in the living room, spread across sofas and chairs, while I settle on the floor, my legs crossed on the thick carpet, the television hums in the background.
I avoid looking at him, but he doesn’t return the courtesy. He hasn’t stopped watching me for even a second.
Isaak says something that sets Adelaide off, and within moments they’re at each other’s throats again.
I watch, detached, if they weren’t fighting, I’d assume one of them was unwell.
Markev glances at me, amused.
“That’ll never be us, spitfire,” he says easily. “We’re far too mad for each other to argue like that.”
I shoot him a look. “Are you genuinely stupid, or just naturally an idiot?”
