20. Twenty #2
“He’s not going to let you go, you know.” Natalya’s voice was matter-of-fact, almost bored. “Not after this little stunt. You’ve only made it worse for yourself.”
Grabbing a bottle of water, I slammed the fridge door. “Why are you still here? Don’t you have someone else to terrorize?”
She slid off the counter, moving with that predatory grace all Romanovs seemed to possess. “Arrow’s father asked me to stay. Said you might need watching after your . . . adventure.”
“His father?” I froze, the water bottle halfway to my lips. “Why does he care what adventures I go on?”
Her smile was sharp enough to cut. “He doesn’t—not really. But Anatoly Romanov still likes to keep tabs on his only son. Especially when his son is about to marry a Virelli bitch—I mean, the only daughter of Giovanni Virelli. You’re practically a collector’s item.”
“I’m not a fucking baseball card.”
“No.” She pushed off the counter and moved toward me, stopping just close enough to make me uncomfortable. “You’re much more valuable. And much more dangerous.”
“Then maybe you should watch yourself.” I sneered, not backing down.
Natalya laughed. “Maybe.” She moved closer, examining the bandage on my leg. “Nice work. Did he do that for you?”
“What’s it to you?”
She shrugged. “Just curious. Arrow doesn’t play doctor. He’s not exactly known for his . . . bedside manner.”
I took a long drink of water, trying to ease the dryness in my throat. “I don’t need his bedside manner or yours.”
The knife spun between her fingers in a lazy circle. Her tongue kept time with a Click. Click. Click. “Arrow’s got plans for you—ones even you can’t dodge. You’re property now.”
My head shook in defiance, but she was probably right. “You always this much of a nihilist?”
“Only when I’m awake.” She watched me with eyes that could blink between sympathy and sociopathy in a heartbeat.
We stared at each other across a kitchen island.
“He isn’t marrying me for love.”
“That’s what they always say . . . at first.” Natalya side-eyed the skin that wasn’t covered by my nightgown, noting the purpling at my collarbone. “But you’ll see. Romanovs get sentimental in the end. It’s their curse, and their downfall.”
I wondered if she was warning herself or me.
When I returned to the fridge to seek out a snack, she moved closer to me, and every nerve ending in my body stood on alert. I barely turned around before she had the knife’s blade up against my throat. Not driving it in, just reminding me she could.
“Nice trick with the pills,” Natalya whispered, breath perfumed with citrus and mint.
“But you should know, before you try it again, I spent six months at a psychiatric black site in Saratov. I can sleep off an overdose like a house cat. But it doesn’t matter now, because by the time Arrow finds your pretty little Virelli body, bled out on the kitchen floor, I’ll be long gone. ”
“Do you really think Arrow would let you live if you killed me?” I kept my voice steady, despite the knife cutting into my throat. “He may not love me, but I’m his prize—his property, remember?”
Her eyes glinted in the dim kitchen light. “Arrow doesn’t need to know it was me. Could’ve been anyone. Maybe you did it yourself. Wouldn’t be the first time a Virelli took the coward’s way out.”
Fucking bitch.
“I’m not a coward,” I hissed, my hands clenching into fists at my side.
“Then prove it.” She pressed the blade harder. “Fight back.”
I stayed silent. If she wanted to slit my throat, she wouldn’t get a scream out of me. I’d never give her or anyone else the satisfaction.
Natalya leaned forward, her lips against my ear, and whispered, “I’m going to bathe in your blood.”
What happened next surprised us both. Reaching my hand up, I grabbed her wrist, and pushed it away from my neck, while slamming the back of my head into her face.
There was a sharp crack as my skull made solid contact, and Natalya’s nose exploded—literally exploded—bright red blood dribbling down my shoulder as her grip on the knife faltered. I turned and snatched the blade from her.
My fingers closed over hers, knuckles grinding, and for one luminous second, we were cheek to cheek, breathing in the same air, hissing each other’s names with the intimacy of twin predators fighting for the last scrap of meat.
Her laugh came through the blood oozing down into her mouth.
“Not bad, bitch,” she slurred.
She spat blood onto the kitchen floor, and grinned at me, teeth red as Romanov rubies. “You broke it,” she said, half in awe, finger prodding tentatively at her mashed nose.
I pressed the tip of the knife to her belly, just above the waistband of her pajamas, thumb ready to finish the job. “It’s not your night, Natty.”
“I feel so alive,” she cooed, before she rushed both of us back, slamming me into the fridge hard.
The shelves inside rattled loudly, while my wrist slammed between her ribs.
I kept the tip of the blade pressed against her stomach.
A single inch would split her, but Natalya’s face was overwhelmed with wild glee, as if the prospect of getting gutted was the first good joke she’d heard since birth.
She kept laughing, even as blood and snot waterfalled down her chin. Her mouth opened in a red smile, and she cocked her head, twisting me further against the crisper drawer.
“Congratulations. You’re the only Virelli I ever liked,” she said, and then, without warning, head-butted me right back.
Stars.
Crackle.
The kitchen warped to a nebula of black and silver as cartilage and my forehead collided.
My vision filled with light and then drained in quick succession.
Her weight bore down, and I stumbled onto the marble, my left ankle catching on the edge of the mat.
The knife dove sideways, and for a split second, I thought she’d strip it from my hand.
But I had the better grip and the bigger fucking chip on my shoulder.
We twisted to the ground, her thigh across my hips, faces so close I could smell the iron and citrus of her lotion.
I brought my knee up, catching the point of her pelvic bone, and then rolled us both, pinning her between the refrigerator and the floor.
I secured her wrist easily, knife at her throat, and held it there.
“Arrow’s going to be pissed,” I panted.
“He’ll get over it,” she hissed. “Go on, do it, Virelli whore. You won’t get the chance again.”
I could end her now, nick the artery, and paint the kitchen in a tribute to my fucking birthright.
All it would cost is the part of myself that even Arrow hadn’t managed to kill yet.
The moment stretched, doubled, and then—with what felt like the last muscle in my body—I let up pressure, just a fraction.
“You’re not worth the cleanup,” I muttered, but my voice wasn’t steady.
I pushed off her, hands splayed to keep her down until my body said run or die.
Natalya snorted, pushing herself up into a crouch, blood still streaming down her face. She wiped her nose on the hem of her sleeve, watching me with eyes that were predatory, almost loving.
The knife trembled in my grip before I slowly set it down on the counter. Natalya watched the motion, never flinching. I made for the stairs, but only halfway through the kitchen, she grabbed the knife and rushed me.
My body moved on muscle memory—sidestepped, letting her momentum carry her straight into the banister.
The impact bought me seconds, giving me just enough time to reach the nearest weapon—a fucking rolling pin on the butcher block—and brought it down against her wrist with everything I had.
The knife flew free and clattered across the floor.
The house fell silent, hungering for the victor.
“Never figured you for a pastry chef, Virelli,” she hissed, eyes watery with pain. “But it doesn’t matter.” She pulled a gun out of the back of her pants and pointed it at me. “A gun always wins over a knife.”
Fuck.
I raised my hands in surrender.
She smiled at me, and the sound of gunfire, followed by the spray of her blood across my face, coincided precisely with the sensation of my heart stuttering. I thought she’d shot me, because my brain crumpled under the sound and I felt my chest seize.
But then I saw Natalya sag, the smile still pried open on her bloody teeth, the gun loosening from her grip.
Turning, Arrow was there, at the top of the stairs, wearing only boxer briefs, arm extended, the barrel still smoking, mouth set as if he regretted the necessity but not the act.
The world seemed to hold its breath as Natalya slumped to the floor, her blood pooling around her like a crimson halo. I couldn’t move as my brain struggled to process what just happened.
Natalya lay crumpled in on herself like a paper doll that had outlasted its necessity. Her head turned sideways, one arm flung out, and blood pumped from a neat, surgical hole in the middle of her forehead.
Arrow only lowered the gun when he saw me, eyes flicking first to check that I wasn’t shot, then down to his cousin, leaking red onto the white tile.
He didn’t speak, barely even moved until he was sure the threat was over, then stalked down the steps, barefoot and silent. His face was expressionless, but his eyes burned with a cold fury that made my skin crawl.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice unnervingly steady.
I shook my head, unsure if it was him or me I was trying to convince.
My brain was unable to form words, and my body was frozen in place, Natalya’s blood warm and sticky on my face.
He knelt beside his cousin’s body and pressed two fingers to her neck, as if there could be any doubt, then used his toe to roll her onto her back, exposing the full stupidity of her devotion to losing.
The counter caught me mid-stagger, my breathing wild and desperate. Blood and saliva dripped from my chin onto the floor.
He killed his cousin before she killed me.
Wiping a hand over his face, he exhaled so slowly I had time to study the sadness in him—the regret so pure it shivered a chill up my spine.