The way she felt in my arms afterward, soft and warm and trusting despite everything I’ve done to her.
I think about the marks I left on her neck, the bruises on her hips from my fingers.
Evidence of my possession, my claim.
But also evidence of my cruelty.
Nicole would hate what I’ve become.
She was always the gentle one, the one who believed in second chances and redemption.
She used to lecture me about how quick I was to choose violence, about how I needed to find better ways to solve problems than with my fists or my gun.
“You’re better than this, Misha,” she’d say, her blue eyes serious. “You’re smart and strong, and you could do so much good if you’d just let go of all this anger.”
But I didn’t let go of the anger. I fed it. I nurtured it. And when she died, it consumed me completely.
I pull out my phone and scroll to the photos I took of Vincent’s execution.
I’ve looked at them a hundred times, searching for satisfaction, for closure.
But all I feel is empty.
Killing Vincent didn’t bring Nicole back.
Torturing Sophia won’t bring my sister back either.
Nothing will. She’s gone, and no amount of revenge will change that.
So why can’t I let Sophia go?
The answer comes to me with uncomfortable clarity: because she makes me feel something other than rage and guilt.
When I’m with her, when I’m inside her, when she’s sleeping in my arms, I feel almost human again.
Almost like the man I was before Nicole died.
And that terrifies me more than any enemy ever could.
I crouch down again and place my hand flat against the cold marble. “I don’t know what to do,moya malen’kaya. I don’t know how to let go of this hate. It’s all I have left of you.”
A crow caws somewhere in the trees, harsh and mocking.
I stand and turn to leave, needing to get back to the mansion, back to Sophia.
I need to see her, to make sure she’s safe, even though I’m the greatest threat to her safety.
That’s when I see them.
Black roses.
A dozen of them, arranged in a perfect bouquet at back side of the tombstone.
My blood turns to ice.
Black roses are a message in our world. A promise of death. A declaration of war.
I scan the cemetery, my hand moving to the Glock at my hip.
