Page 170 of Nemesis

I watch the reunion for a while—the motherly touches that imprint his flesh into her hands. A silent mix of agony and relief fights for dominance on Alex’s face. Kirill’s lips shift with quiet reassurances, even as he flinches at the moon’s bright light.

My head goes light. Hands snake my waist before I can slip down to the grass. I stay in his arms until I’ve stolen enough strength to stand on my own. When Juliet’s searching gaze finds Kirill’s bloody hand, I turn, walking inside with my silent shadow. A loud wail follows me. I don’t allow myself to flinch at the sound.

I climb the steps. My hand skims the bannister at the top, and I cut down the hall to the far door.

Dad’s office is empty when we enter. Mom’s journals still lie splayed open across the floor where I’d left them behind. A copy of the blueprints is pressed to the desk with empty glasses and abandoned bottles.

I still haven’t moved his book from the arm of the reading chair. It’s been forgotten, just like the chess pieces frozen in formations across the board. I sit gently, careful not to sully the book with the blood on my hands. Vasiliy hovers in the doorway with a watchful eye, but I pay him no heed as I lean forward to examine the board.

I’m not sure how long I sit. My hands dry, and the substance flakes off. Vasiliy leaves and returns four times, bringing back a different item with every reappearance. A cup of hot tea. A warm towel for the filth on my hands and face. Fluffy blankets for my legs and shoulders. The final item is the most appreciated: a book on chess that I rage-bought after suffering my first defeat. I crack the spine over my thigh and think.

When I finally lean forward, the morning light is streaking through the blinds, and the cardinals’ whistles pierce the air. I play both sides. Black first, then white. It takes exactly fourteen moves before the bishop knocks the king.

“You don’t have to do this⁠—”

“Say that one more time and I’ll lobotomize you with this pen,” she snaps, holding up the utensil between our faces.

My hands raise in surrender. “Fine.” I lean over the arm of my chair to hers, eyeing the lawyer sitting on the other side of the desk.

The summer air hangs thick, unaffected by the thundering attempts of the rickety AC in the corner. We arrived at the law firm hours ago, and we’re still going through the paperwork. The longer this takes, the more nervous I get.

“All I’m saying is that this is a very permanent thing. I have no expectations for you to fill the role, and you’re so young…”

“Marriage is a permanent thing, wouldn’t you say?” She raises her brows. “Especially for someone like you, seeing as the only way you’re getting out of it is an early grave.”

“I do enjoy your threats, my love, but can we save them for a more secluded room if they continue to include murder?”

She waves at the man. “He’s on an NDA.”

“That’s actually not how those work,” he finally pipes up, but Octavia only rolls her eyes, turning back to me with a question in her gaze.

“Is this something you don’t want?”

“No,” I answer immediately. “Of course I want it.” I don’t think I’ve ever wanted something more. “But you…” I sigh, twisting my hands in my lap. When I find the end of the sentence, my words are little more than a breath. “You were supposed to be a ballerina.”

Her eyes widen.

“You were an amazing ballerina, moya zlaya. Do you not ever wonder what you could’ve accomplished in New York if I didn’t curse you with my existence?”

The man across from us wisely maintains his focus on the stack of papers in his hand. I hold my gaze on the desk, set on giving Octavia some semblance of privacy while she thinks, but a hand threads up my neck and through my hair.

“We are allowed to be many different things in this life, Vas. Ballet was not my dream. It was a pathway to reach it.”

“So what was your dream?” I ask, leaning into her touch. “What did you think about becoming when you were small?”

How have I not asked her this question before? It is my job to tick off every single one of her hopes and dreams.

“Power.”

Disappointment echoes in my mind. It isn’t something I can offer her, not when she already carved it out for herself.

“Do you think that makes me a monster?”

We may have grown up thousands of miles apart, but I understand her answer down to my marrow. Our dream was the same. Two children who craved control in the disarray, and went to sleep each night wishing they wouldn’t have to fear the morning.

“You are no monster. You are my leader, my wife, and my closest friend.”

She tilts her head in contemplation, and the only sound in the room is the rough scribbling of our lawyer’s pen.