I shake my head, throwing those thoughts right out. No, I can’t ever marry someone like her. It would never work. She’s toogood, tooinnocent.
Suddenly, the singing stops in the next room and is replaced by a quiet sob. I can practically smell her tears from here. She cries and cries, her grief never-ending. Perhaps she’s crying over the thought of marrying me. And for some reason, that pisses me off. I’ll never forget her blurting out her protest when her father disclosed that she would be marrying me and not my brother.
I saw the hopefulness in Savina’s gaze when it landed on Pavel first. And then it was like a switch flipped when she saw me. It was almost like she was lookingthroughme; ripping open each and every one of my scars and discovering all of my secrets.
A million thoughts swirl through my mind all at once.Is she more attracted to my brother? Is she scared of me? Am I ugly? What’s wrong with me?
The last question gives me pause when I glance down to the knife in my hand. I’m literally here to kill her and I’m asking myself what’s wrong with me?
I chuckle darkly.
When I hear the water suddenly shut off, I know I have to quickly weigh my options. I could kill Savina now and put her out of her obvious misery. Or I could let her live, go through with the wedding, and make her life a living, breathing hell.
Once we’re married, she will be mine. Mine to do with what I please. My property. I could bend her until she finally breaks. My pretty, little nightingale.
I silently make my choice as my newfound obsession for her tightens its grip, and the darkness inside of me surges to the surface.
I guess my mother was right. I am a fucking monster.
And that’s why, without second-guessing my decision, I sneak back out of her window and take off into the night, leaving Savina to live a sad, pathetic life in peace until we’re married.
“You will be mine,privighetoare mica,” I whisper into the shadows.
CHAPTER ONE
Savina
Then (Two years later)
THE DRIVER DROPSme off in front of a private school in the upper west side of Manhattan. It’s my first official day of high school, and I’m beyond nervous. The limestone and granite four-story structure looms over me as I step out of the car and anxiously adjust the strap on my backpack. The building is ancient and looks like it should be a museum instead of a school.Wytheford Preparatory Schoolis inscribed above the double doors leading into the main entrance. It looks so daunting, and I almost want to turn around and tell the driver I want to go back home.
But before I can do that, he calls from the car’swindow, “I’ll be back at three o’clock to pick you up.” And then the car is pulling away from the curb; my escape plan leaving with him.
Sighing, I slowly walk towards the school. Massive stone columns flank the entrance, weathered just enough to hint at centuries of rich and powerful legacies that have passed through those very doors. Dark green vines creep up the walls on either side in tight, purposeful shapes. They look curated and trimmed to perfection, as if even they have to meet school standards as well and aren’t allowed to grow out of control.
I tuck my AirPods next to my cell phone in my blazer pocket and straighten my uniform. All the girls who attend here have to wear a dark blue and white plaid skirt, a white button-up shirt and a navy blazer emboldened with the school’s name and crest. The guys wear a similar style, except that they wear navy dress pants in lieu of the skirt, and they have to wear a plaid necktie.
The tuition at Wytheford is the highest in the city, which means all of NYC’s finest try to get their kids in here. With so many pining for admission, it’s harder to get into this school than it is to get into Harvard or Yale. The competition is no joke, and money really speaks volumes. Honestly, I think it’s a waste of said money, but I could never tell my parents that. Besides, they want the prestige that goes along with the Wytheford name and the ability to brag to all of their friends that I was accepted into it.
I push my way through the heavy front door. The lobby opens up into a tall atrium with skylights two stories above that let sunlight pour in and bounce off of the old, polished stone and original hardwood floors.
The flooring creaks under my feet as I walk up to the front desk. The woman sitting behind it greets me, and I give her a polite hello.
“Do you need help finding anything?” she asks sweetly with a saccharine smile, and I can’t help but wonder if her face hurts after a long day of forced grinning.
I’m about to ask where the lockers are when I’m tackled from behind. I collapse onto the desk, the woman behind it staring at me inhorror, her huge smile long forgotten. When I whirl around, I see my best friend standing there with a mischievous smirk on her face. Darby’s long, black hair and her signature look of dark makeup and black lipstick stand out like a sore thumb in a place like this. The woman behind the desk narrows her eyes at Darby unapprovingly.
“She doesn’t need help. She has me,” Darby says proudly before grabbing my hand and leading me towards the right hall in a quick sprint.
“No running in the halls!” the woman calls after us.
Darby sticks her middle finger up in the air and waves it around as we continue walking fast.
“They’re g-g-going to k-k-k-kick you out on the f-f-first day!” I tell her before we come to a stop in front of a row of lockers.
“They can try,” she retorts before punching in the code for the lock and opening the tall metal door to her locker.
Darby Montague has been my best friend and my ride or die since the first day of kindergarten. I started late that year due to my mother’s premature death, and Darby was the only girl in class who was kind to me. When the other kids bullied me because of my stutter, she would bully them right back. Sometimes she would even get into a physical fight over it. She got suspended so many times in kindergarten that her rebellious reputation followed her throughout elementary school and middle school. And she’s already starting off high school on the wrong foot as well, but I wouldn’t expect anything less from my bestie.
