Page 66 of Nemesis

My hands are on Octavia in an instant, systematically patting down every limb and junction for any sign of injury. She stands perfectly still as I do, blinking once before her eyes drift to mine. I’m not hurt, she seems to say, even though her lips don’t separate from their tight line. There’s a handgun dangling from her grip, both clarifying the situation and confusing me more.

“Morozov. Report,” Sasha calls out behind me.

“She’s uninjured,” I respond without turning my head. I glance at the second body a few feet away. “Two down, one is ours.”

“He snuck up behind me,” she finally says in a whisper. Her tone fucking guts me. There I was, sitting on my ass and arguing down the hall when she needed me most. Shame swarms my stomach. I had been so close to leaving out the window the night before…leaving her…

She extends her hand, offering me the gun she must have taken from the other body. Her fingers shake around the metal, trembling as if holding the weapon is a painful act in itself. It reminds me of the time I took my sister fishing in the late summer, and she handed me the slimy worm baiting her hook, tears welling in her eyes.

I take the weapon.

“He was armed.” Her eyes grow impossibly larger, and a vicious wave of protectiveness spills through me. “I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t…”

“I know,” I nod. “You didn’t have a choice.” My thumb wipes a splatter of blood from her pale cheek. She nods with a faraway look that makes me want to press her into my arms and never let go.

“Vas,” she gasps, so soft the word is almost inaudible.

My head tilts before I even process the cue, stepping close enough for her lips to brush my ear.

“Vas, he’s not dead,” she rushes out, gripping my wrist. A glance confirms that the Siderov brothers are sweeping the nearby hall, and the choking sounds continue to break up the silence.

“I’ll take care of it,” I say against her skin, taking a selfish breath of her scent. I move to pull away, but her hands latch onto my chest, just like they did that day in the cage.

“Don’t leave me.”

The plea wreaks havoc on my poor heart.

“I won’t,” I promise, tugging her waist close. “But I need you to step away and close your eyes, okay?”

The change happens so quickly, I almost miss it. She blinks, and suddenly her pupils start to go back to normal. Her wrists shake out until her palms steady. She lets go of my chest, only to link one of her hands through mine.

“No.”

“No?” I tilt my head, trying to make sense of the sudden shift.

“No. I’m not going to step away or close my eyes.”

I blink. Part of me wants to talk her out of that decision, but her jaw is set in such stern conviction, I can’t voice the dissent.

The guy’s balaclava is still draped over his face, even as he chokes beneath the fabric. Her shot was effective; given enough time, the clip to his throat would’ve been mortal. In fact, most would’ve bled out by now. Pride rises in my chest as I lean down to align the barrel with the fucker’s temple. Octavia leans down with me on sturdy legs, her hand still secured to mine.

One pop, and the gurgling stops.

I barely have a second to appreciate the familiar weight of a weapon resting between my fingers when the Pakhan comes barreling into the hall on silent feet.

“We gotta move,” Siderov urges, crouching to tug the balaclava off the man’s head. His eyes burn with recognition, something I fully intend to question him on later.

“You okay?” I ask Octavia, my hands finding her waist.

Your first kill is hard. We both know that’s what this is, even if I was the one to finish the job. I still remember mine so many years later. Sometimes, I still dream about his face—the way it shifted from mirth to fear as he realized his death would come by a twelve-year-old’s hand in the basement of the Morozov compound. I’ve ended dozens of lives since that day, but his is still the one that revisits me the most.

Her eyes bounce around the room, landing on a million different things. Her father. The stained carpet. The fresh corpse. She finally nods, settling on the still body by our feet. I watch carefully as she shuts her eyes, preparing for her to emote in some normal, understandable way. Yelling, or crying, or falling to the red puddle growing across the fluffy carpet. But, I guess I should’ve known better by now.

This is Octavia Clarke. The same girl who strangled the stranger in her cell and hummed through subungual needle torture.

So, naturally, she gives her shut lids one last squeeze, and when they open back up, her irises are a settled, dry shade of jade.

“I’m good,” she says, voice as steady as a seasoned soldier.