“You’re lying.”
My jaw tightens. Anya sees it. She always sees too much.
I walk away before I say something sharp enough to cut her for no reason.
The drawing room is dark except for the fire. It has burned low, but there’s enough flame left to throw light over the walls. I stop in front of it and stare into the heat.
The room disappears.
For a moment, I’m not here. I’m eight years old in a hallway too narrow for my mother’s sadness. She’s sitting at the kitchen table in a robe too thin for winter, turning a ring around her finger because he had promised to come that night.
He doesn’t come.
I’m twelve, standing outside a door while men inside speak about me like I’m a mistake that has learned to listen.
I’m fifteen, watching my mother cough into a handkerchief and hide the blood before I can see it.
I saw it. I always saw it.
I’m nineteen, outside the main Volkov house, rain running down my face, while a guard tells me Kirill Volkov is not receiving visitors.
My mother dies three weeks later.
The fire snaps.
I come back to the room.
Anya stands behind me. I feel her before I see her.
“You should have gone upstairs,” I say.
“I heard you the first time.”
“And you ignored me.”
“Yes.”
I close my eyes briefly. “This is not a good time.”
“For what?”
“For you to test me.”
“I’m not testing you.”
I turn then, anger already rising.
She’s closer than I thought. Close enough that I can see the small marks my mouth left on her neck earlier. Close enough that the emeralds glitter against her throat like proof of a war she didn’t start but entered anyway.
“You shouldn’t be near me right now,” I say.
Her eyes search mine. “Because of your father?”
“Because I’m not in the mood to be gentle.”
Something changes in her face.
Not fear.
