Guilty. Reluctant. Painfully honest.
I didn’t wait.
I turned and ran.
Bare feet slapped against marble as I sprinted toward the kitchen. The sound echoed through the cavernous space, sharp and desperate.
Someone called my name—Dario, I think—but I didn’t stop.
The kitchen gleamed under recessed lighting. Stainless steel appliances. Marble countertops. A rack of knives displayed like art.
I grabbed the largest chef’s knife within reach.
The metal was cold.
Solid. Honest.
When I returned to the living room, all six brothers tensed at once.
Ruslan stood up.
“Elena—” Dario started.
I didn’t hesitate.
I pressed the blade to my left wrist.
Hard.
The edge bit instantly.
A thin red line appeared, bright against pale skin.
Gasps. Shouts. Movement.
I pushed harder.
Pain flared.
Blood welled. Warm. Real.
It trickled down my arm in slow rivulets, dripping from my elbow onto the marble floor.
I mouthed the words slowly, clearly, making sure every single one of them understood.
“I would rather bleed out than stay here.”
Chaos erupted.
“Elena!” Dario lunged forward, but Luca caught his arm, stopping him from startling me into pressing deeper.
“Easy,” Luca hissed.
Ruslan froze.
For the first time since I had known him, he looked stripped of control.
“Put it down,” he said.
