Chapter 118

You’d think that would make it easy for me to say it out loud and be done with this meddlesome back-and-forth we seem to be eternally locked in. One quick story and I could slice this off at the root. It’d be so easy to say.

But I don’t.

Because the idea of seeing her feelings for me die… I don’t think I can handle that. Which means Petro was right.

Petro was absolutely right, and that pisses me the fuck off.

“You don’t understand a thing about me or my life, sladkaya.”

She flings the fake IDs back onto the table. Then she marches right up to me and jabs an accusing finger in my face. Despite the fact that she’s freshly showered, I can still smell myself on her skin.

“You know what? I think you’ve got that all wrong. I know way too much about you and your life,” she snaps, her green eyes scorching with the blaze of her attack. “Which is why you’re pulling a Daniil right now. And before you can ask, a ‘Daniil’ is the act of getting defensive and combative when a person—namely me—gets too close, because God forbid that someone might know you, really know you. That idea is so damn terrifying that you’ll try everything in your power to push them away and shut them out.”

I applaud mockingly. “That’s great stuff, Dr. Freud. Maybe you can explore my suppressed Oedipal complex, too. If we have enough time left in our session.”

“Sarcasm,” she snaps. “Another great defense mechanism. Honestly, Daniil, what the hell are you so afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Right. Of course not. Because admitting fear is just another weakness, huh? And Gregor Semenov’s son doesn’t have any weaknesses. Is that how you were programmed?”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Admitting to weakness doesn’t make you weak, Daniil. A strong man would know that.”

“Maybe you should find yourself one of those then,” I growl. “And stop following me around like a bitch in heat.”

The moment the words are out of my mouth, I want to pull them back in and swallow them down so deep that they disappear for good.

But the monster inside me smacks his lips approvingly. Good, it croons. Make her cry. Make her bleed. Make her suffer.

Kinsley stares up at me, looking fierce and flawless and so devastatingly hurt. “You’re a miserable bastard,” she says at last, breaking the harsh silence that seems to unfurl around us like a storm.

Her voice quivers as she speaks. Tears slip down the corners of her eyes.

She was crying when I met her and she’s crying now. Apparently, it doesn’t matter what I’m doing, whether I’m trying to save her life or trying to ruin it—tears are an inevitability.

“I never pretended to be anything else,” I say coldly. “I can’t help it if your imagination got away from you. Guess it runs in the family.”

I really am a miserable bastard.

I don’t want her to hate me. Not really. But a part of me registers that maybe if she does hate me, it’ll be easier for me to walk away from her when I have to.

And that time is coming. Far sooner than either of us ever wanted.

24

DANIIL

I sit on the balcony for a long time, brooding. But the cold isn’t as refreshing as it was when we first arrived. Now, it’s just lonely.

When I’ve had my fill of it, I go back in. The dawn is peeking over the mountains as I open Isla’s door to see that she’s still sleeping. The bathroom light is on, though, so I creep through the bedroom and step inside.

Kinsley is brushing out her hair on the stool in front of the vanity when I darken the doorway. She looks up at me. The air is still prickly with tension from our midnight fight.

“You’ll have to pack,” I tell her gruffly. “We leave as soon as the sun is up.”

She nods tightly, then goes back to her brushing. I watch her run her hair through her fingers again and again. It’s hypnotic. Lulling me into—well, not quite a daze, but something similar. It doesn’t pull me out of reality, but rather deeper into it. Deeper into her. Into this little bubble we’ve been hiding in, pretending that the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

It’s been so easy to live in here with her. As us. As a family.

That’s why we have to leave.

“Kinsley…”

She stiffens but keeps her gaze resolutely fixed on the path of the brush in her hand. She doesn’t say a word.

“About what happened…”

I get lost somewhere between what I want to say and what I can say. Stuck at a crossroads with no idea which way to go.

“Are you gonna tell me you didn’t mean any of it?” she asks, voice clipped. “Because we both know that’s not true. You don’t really say anything you don’t mean, do you, Daniil?”

I let out a whistling sigh. “It came out too harsh.”

She snorts. “Is there a nice way to tell someone to fuck off?”

“That’s not what I was trying to do.”

She gets up abruptly, but then she just stands there staring up at me as though she can strike me down with the force of her glare.

“You really are broken, aren’t you?” she accuses. “More so than I am.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “Guess we got to the bottom of it then, huh? That’s me, irreparably fucked. Took you long enough to figure it out. But what does it say about you, princess? You wouldn’t have been attracted to me if I were a boring, sensible, well-adjusted guy. It’s the dysfunction that you go for. You crave the fucked-up parts of me most of all.”

“See?” she snaps, striding forward and jabbing me in the chest with the hairbrush like it’s a sword. “You can’t have a real conversation with me without getting all defensive and angry.”

“I’m always angry.”

“Yes, I know,” she says. “I also know why.”

“You don’t—”

She jabs me again, harder this time. “Oh, yes, I do. Because despite what you think, I’m not an idiot, Daniil. At least, I’m not always an idiot. And we’re more alike than even I realized.”

I snort derisively, even as I can feel my blood pressure rise and my hands start to shake. “Tell me more. I’m dying to know.”

“You’re angry,” she says softly, letting the fist holding the brush fall to her side. “With your father. With the world. But you’re angry with yourself most of all.”