She shrugs—a faint, sad jolt of her shoulder. “It’s either this or not having him at all. I’ve run all possible scenarios in my head, and I always end up choosing him, no matter what.”
I smile. “So you don’t think about it much, then? You just accept the situation?”
“Pretty much. In the end, life isn’t guaranteed to any of us. You can die completely out of nowhere, even if you never put yourself in harm’s way. I refuse to live my life in fear. I want to fight, not hide.”
Her words feel like a fresh breath after diving out of the water. Although I still worry greatly about Mikhail, a tendril of courage makes its way into my heart. I should trust him like I always do—trust he’ll make his way back to me, because he promised.
Victoria glances toward the house, where her husband is, with the kind of longing I recognize.
“Do you…do you think Mikhail will be okay?” I ask.
She looks up at me, lips curving into a sympathetic smile. “He’s been dodging death so many times, it’s hard to imagine he won’t do it again. He’ll be back.”
God, I hope she’s right.
A lump forms in my throat, and I nod, trying to bring my focus back to the horse, to the way my body sways from the movement and the soft, icy blow of the wind against my face.
The hour passes, and I dismount the animal.
Thanks to the rush of endorphins after the mild workout, my anxiety eases up a little. I take the reins, following Victoria toward the stables, where she said she’d show me how to remove Alaska’s tack.
We don’t make it all the way, however, because a fox comes out of the forest somewhere in the mare’s line of sight. She jerks a little forward, the reins snapping tight around my curled fingers until I lose them. A quick, sharp pain courses through one of my fingers.
“Ah,” I groan, seeing a droplet of blood form on my skin. My diamond ring must have snipped it.
“You okay? Sorry about that,” Victoria says, taking the reins.
“Y-Yeah. It’s just a small?—”
Paralyzed, I keep staring at the droplet swelling on the tip of my finger. It trembles there for a second, round and glossy, the winter light reflecting in it.
I should suck it clean to make the bleeding stop, but I don’t. For some reason, my gaze clings to the visual, ignoring everything else as my lungs refuse to take in any more oxygen.
Time seems to slow, the world around me fading, as if someone covers my ears. Victoria is saying something—my name, perhaps—but her voice sounds muffled, like it’s somewhere far, far away.
My pulse begins to throb in my temples, sending tremors through my hands. It makes the droplet fall eventually. I peerdown as it splashes against the white snow, creating an aghast contrast. I don’t want to look, don’t want to see it. But it’s there, and it’s obvious, and I can’t close my eyes.
“No. N-No?—”
Red on white.
My mouth dries out because…I’ve seen this before.
The thought barges into my mind like a tornado, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
Red on white.
Blood on fresh sheets.
Mymother’ssheets when she bled out that night, the abundant, metallic scent.
“No,” I whisper, but I don’t know why I’m still trying to deny it.
My breathing turns shallow, and a guttural sound leaves my chest as the memory hits me. It’s still fragmented, but every piece hurts more than the last, clawing its way deeper into my heart.
I remember my small hands. I remember how gross they felt with all the blood. Something hard hangs heavy from one of them—the handle of a knife. I remember needing to drop it but being unable to move.
My own sob reaches my ears as I continue to watch the snow. I try to shake my head, but the memories keep hitting me anyway. My father came into the room that night, and he...he yelled. He panicked. I said I was sorry, and he grabbed my shoulder, pulling me away as if I’d done something wrong.
