As long as it doesn’t kill me, he doesn’t care how much I suffer.
If anything, he uses it as a form of punishment—on behalf of his fists.
“And you believed that nonsense?” He stares down his nose at me. “By God, you’re such a fool, Yulian. Always so eager to put your trust in the wrong people, just because they hand you a scrap of kindness for ten minutes. Vaughn abandoned you and left you to rot on that mountain. If our men hadn’t scoured every inch of that rock to find you, you’d be a corpse.”
My ears ring as I sink both my hands into the sheet so hard, I almost rip the IV out of my wrist.
No.
He’s lying.
Yaroslav is lying?—
“Since we found the evidence that Kirill planned this, it’s war again. Forget about any attempts to build a bridge.”
“Wait…” I cough, my voice raspy. “Kirill wouldn’t be so stupid as to launch an attack from his home base. Put yourself in his shoes. Would you do it?”
“Even if he didn’t do it, his people did, and that’s even worse because it means he has shaky control over his organization. Not that it matters. This alliance was already doomed, even if the camp had been a success.”
He steps closer, and I pant as his hand clamps around my chin, yanking my head up until I’m forced to meet his eyes. “You’ve disappointed me enough for a lifetime this summer, and I will not tolerate this type of behavior again. Going forward, you will fall in line and play the role of myheir to perfection, or I’ll see that your mother and sister are sent somewhere you’ll never find them.”
My dad slams me back, my head cracking against the headboard. I bite down on my lower lip, so I don’t release a groan of pain. He views that as a weakness, and I guess a part of me doesn’t want to seem weak—not in front of him.
With one final glare, he heads to the door.
So much for “Get well soon, son,” I guess.
As he’s walking out, Mom comes inside, lowering her head when he glares at her while muttering curses about “a useless son and a useless mother.”
Right.
He thinks it’s my mother’s fault I’m such an “idiot.”
“Dusha moya…”
My soul.
That’s what Mom calls me in the softest voice as she approaches me.
I wince because I’m the one bleeding, yet she looks like she’s already embraced death. Her frame is skeletal, her once beautiful face reduced to bone and hollowed cheeks. The brown eyes I inherited half of are drained, lifeless. Dried tear tracks stain her skin, and the dress hanging off her is far too big for what’s left of her fragile body.
Her bright auburn hair is only a wig that mimics her actual hair. She lost it again during her last chemo session, along with her brows that are painted on now. She doesn’t allow me or Alya to see her at her worst, always wearing perfume to cover up the gutting smell of antiseptic. But we have seen her when she was too weak to move, too weak to wake up or kiss us good morning.
I try to sit up, grunting at the stabbing pain, and she gently pushes me back down and tucks me in. “Just rest.”
“I’m not a kid anymore, you know.” I try to smile, but it ends up in a grunt.
“You’ll always be a kid to me.” She strokes my damp hair away from my face. “I’ll never forget the day you were born. You were so tiny but had the rarest, most stunning eyes, and when you looked up at me, holding my finger in your little fist, I think I fell in love at first sight. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me, Dusha moya. You know that, right? I’m so glad I have you.”
“And I’m so glad I have you, Mama.”
At least one of my parents loves me so unconditionally, it almost makes me forget about the other one.
Almost.
She hesitates, then clears her throat. “Don’t…take your dad’s words to heart. You know he wants what’s best for you.”
Yeah, right.
