But I know the fear isn’t directed at him, but at what the truth might cost me.
God, the truth. What a concept.
Will he accept what I tell him? Or will the warmth I finally glimpsed from his winter-gray eyes drain when he realizes that he never should have let me in?
I open the door, slide inside, and turn to face him.
Then my heart stops.
He looks at me with a directness in his gaze that I’ve seen a thousand times already. But this doesn’t quite feel the same. Where his gaze once set me ablaze, now there is an iciness that freezes me in place.
I know what that look is, because it’s the same look I had for him for five years.
Hate.
Cold, crystalline hate freezing those gray eyes like lake ice cracking in winter. And my rehearsed confession dies in my throat. The words I've been practicing and the vulnerable truth I planned to offer turn to ash before I can shape my mouth around the first syllable.
He knows.
He has to know. There's no other explanation for that look or for the absolute stillness of his body.
"Slava—" I start.
"Open your hand." His voice is still deep and it still rumbles, but there is an unmistakablehurtin it as he commands me.
I do as I’m told. My hand opens and I hold my palm out, waiting for him to condemn me.
He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls something out, and drops it into my palm.
I know what it is. I know it even before the tiny dried flake—lighter than a feather—brushes my skin.
The thumbprint.
I close my hand around it, and the world goes silent like someone pressed mute on reality itself. All I can hear now is the roar of my own blood in my ears. There’s not a goddamn thing I can say that can save me now, I realize, not a damn thing that can saveus.
"Tell me what it is."
"It's a fingerprint." My voice is strange and distant, and for a moment, I swear I can see myself as if I’m astral projecting out of my own body. "Your fingerprint. Made out of glue."
"And what did you use it for?"
I almost wish that he’s yelling and screaming at me. Anything would be better than this controlled anger. Yelling means his blood burns hot. Yelling means that he still cares enough to be angry.
"I used it to open your safe," I tell him, and continue my confession because I don’t want him to drag it out of me. "I photographed a list of names. I sent it to Nico D'Ambrosio."
"What else did you do?"
"The chateau." My throat is closing up, but I force the words out anyway. "I sent the location to Nico as well."
He leans closer, and I realize I'm pressed back against the car door, trying to put as much distance between us as the confined space allows.
"Why, Bella?"
Because this was the only choice I had left. Because this is how I can save both boys.But the words never take shape on my mouth, because I know he won’t believe me now. And why would he?
I led the D’Ambrosios to his son. I sent them to his home. He’s going to get hurt because of me.
If I want to keep him safe, then I have to push him away from me.
