“I won’t bring up marriage again. I won’t call you wife or fiancée. But please, don’t leave me.”
I throw my arms around his neck and bury my face there, in that place where his scent and pulse are strongest. He hugs me back, then stands, but only to take a seat on the edge of the bed. He rains kisses on the crown of my head, while I rain tears on his skin.
The magnitude of my reaction is absurd.
Utterly illogical.
He strokes my hunched spine, which only amplifies my heartache. What iswrongwith me?
Neither of us speaks for a long, long while, even after my tears have abated. We just cling to one another until sharp knocks rattle my door, followed by a voice.
One that belongs to…
Impossible.
41
KONSTANTIN
My arms stiffen around Isla. Am I hearing voices again?
“Brother?” Ksenia’s voice goes from croak to howl. “Kostya!”
Before I can break Isla’s delicate bones, I set her down and pull on my slacks and shirt.
My sister, who has been hiding from me for weeks, who has encouraged rebellions against me, is standing right outside Isla’s door. Could this be some trap? Has she littered the hallway with the corpses of my guards and is waiting for me with an army of her own?
“Unhand me,” I hear Ksenia snarl. “Do not touch me.”
My guards mustn’t be dead.
I start toward the door but halt and travel to Isla’s closet instead, returning with the first thing I find—a long black slip. She raises her arms, and I pour the sheath over her. Once she’s clothed, I head to the door, adrenaline flooding my system. As I reach for the handle, I catch Isla ambling my way, fingers toying with her spiky earring, readying herself to bloodcast.
“Don’t cross the threshold,” she murmurs to me.
I jerk my head in a nod, then draw the door wide, torn between relief at the sight of my breathing guards restraining my sister with vines, and horror at the sight of her.
“Kostya!” Ksenia’s chest rises and falls in frantic bursts. “T-Tell them t-t-to unhand me.”
Every hair on my body stands on end as I take in her slashed eyebrow that dribbles blood down her freckled cheek and onto the fur collar of her cream cloak, which is dappled in more sanguine splatter. “What happened to you?”
“I go-got into a f-fight.” The whites of her eyes are so pink they give her irises a ghoulish tint. “With our niece.”
My ears start to hum. “Our niece?”
“Mes-Mestyla. The g-g-girl you’ve b-been?—”
“We know who Mestyla is,” I snap.
Isla’s violet eyes press against my ticking cheek.
“She attacked me,” Ksenia whimpers. “Please tell the guards to loo-loosen their restraints. At least, the ones around m-my”—she grimaces—“chest.”
“Keep her wrists bound behind her back.”
When the three vines around her chest vanish, she expels a sigh of relief. “Thank y?—”
“Where is Mestyla?” My tone is so clipped it shears through her pathetic gratefulness.
