He hands me the photo, and I study Nicole’s smiling face. She looks so young, so innocent. Nothing like the broken girl Mikhail described.
“I failed her,” he says, his voice cracking. “I was supposed to protect her, and I failed.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” I set down the photo and move to him, placing my hand on his chest. “What happened to her was evil, but you didn’t cause it.”
“I should have been there. Should have known something was wrong. Should have?—”
“Stop.” I cup his face, forcing him to look at me. “You can’t change the past. You can only choose what you do now.”
“I chose revenge.” His hands come up to cover mine. “I chose to make your father pay. To makeyoupay.”
“I know.” And I do. I understand his pain, even if I can’t yet forgive what he’s done to me. “But revenge won’t bring her back.”
“Nothing will bring her back.” He pulls away and moves to the window, staring out at the dark grounds. “That’s why I have to make sure her death meant something. That the people who hurt her suffer.”
I want to argue.
Want to tell him that more violence won’t heal his wounds.
But I’m starting to understand that some wounds never heal.
They just become part of who you are.
I move to stand beside him, and we’re both silent, lost in our own thoughts. Outside, the guards patrol the perimeter, their flashlights cutting through the darkness.
“Thank you for showing me this,” I say finally. “For letting me see this part of you.”
He turns to me, and the vulnerability in his eyes catches in my throat. “You’re the only person I’ve ever brought in here. The only person I’ve wanted to share this with.”
Before I can respond, before I can process what that means, he’s kissing me again.
And this time, when we make love on the floor of his sister’s shrine, it feels like a promise. Or maybe a prayer.
Hours later, I wake in our bed with no memory of how we got there. Mikhail’s arm is draped across my waist, his breathing deep and even. The clock on the nightstand reads 3:47 a.m.
I’m just drifting back to sleep when I hear it.
Gunshots.
Multiple gunshots, echoing through the halls like thunder.
I bolt upright, my heart hammering. Beside me, Mikhail is already moving, reaching for the gun he keeps in the nightstand.
“Stay here,” he orders, his voice deadly calm despite the chaos erupting outside our door.
More gunshots. Shouting. The sound of breaking glass.
“What’s happening?” I clutch the sheet to my chest, terror flooding through me.
“We’re under attack.” He’s pulling on clothes with practiced efficiency. “Lock the door behind me. Don’t open it for anyone but me.”
“Mikhail—”
He kisses me hard and fast. “I’ll come back for you. I promise.”
Then he’s gone, disappearing into the hallway where the sounds of violence grow louder with each passing second.
I’m alone in the darkness, listening to gunfire and screams, and all I can think is how I’d called Melinda.
