“And leave you behind? No way in hell.”
“He doesn’t torture me to near death like he does you.”
“I still don’t like that you’re on your own with Lukas and Mikailo there.” Lukas and Mikailo being our older half-brothers—from different mothers, because Dad liked to fuck around—you know, the same thing he promised to kill me for with a slight change of gender.
“They don’t care about me enough to kill me. I think being in a chair makes me no competition whatsoever, so silver linings, I guess.” She laughs.
I don’t.
My heart is ripping from the inside out.
Our half-brothers, who keep working like dogs for the emperor’s—sorry, Dad’s—approval, don’t see her as competition now. But the possibility of her having children that could challenge them in the future isn’t a risk they’re willing to take.
“Sorry, bad joke.” She winces. “Anyway, miss you. Will send you videos tomorrow, okay?”
“All right.”
“Seriously, stop looking so grim. I lost my legs and ballet, but I can still play the piano.”
“You loved ballet.”
“Not as much as playing the piano. I’m serious. I don’t even miss ballet anymore, because my love for the piano flourished and I realized I’m better at piano than dancing. I enjoy it a lot more, too. Maybe what happened was a good thing, so that I can dedicate myself to one activity and excel in it.”
“You excel at everything.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re my brother.”
“Nah, you’re just amazing. I was your number one fan, remember? You used to make me sit around and listen to you play.”
She giggles, covering her mouth. “You were making little bombs with machetes and stuff stolen from the kitchen.”
“That means you provide the best inspiration.”
She laughs, then stops, probably remembering how severely I was punished for my creations or when I dismantled some device to see inside it.
Then she tactfully changes the subject, talking about her preparations and our half-brothers. Alina hates them on principle, not because they’re mean to her or anything, but because they antagonize me and are vying for my place.
She can’t stand them for entirely unselfish reasons. Because she’s always been in my corner, but I haven’t always been there for her. I failed her once, and I’ll never let that happen again.
By the time she hangs up, I feel a sense of loss.
No, it’s probably that pesky crushing guilt again.
I spend an hour punching the bag with Dad’s face on it, letting out the hostility that seeps into my muscles.
Still can’t freaking punch him to smithereens, though.
What a fucking pity.
As I’m about to lift weights, my phone pings on the bench, and I rush to it and pick it up, sweat dripping on the screen.
My shoulders fall when I find a text from one of the girls I fuck asking me to wear matching clothes to the party.
I remind her that we’re not dating. I probably won’t fuck her tomorrow, because I need to get this aggression out and she’s not one to enjoy that. Which means I need to fuck a guy—or two. The more the merrier.
It’s ridiculous that my ragey habits have been mounting because the asshole whom I’ve been anticipating completely ignored me when I texted him after Zveroushka’s death.
Though it wasn’t one text. I kind of texted him on the regular for three days straight.
