Chapter 5
Five
The Present
Hearing him talk about Aleksei shreds my fucking heart.
His brother wasn’t a bad person, not like Gabriel or Francesco.
Aleksei knew how to laugh and how to love.
Like with the guys and me, he and Aleksander were forced into a mold and shaped to become what the Society needed them to be, and Aleksei died because of it.
I came to terms with what I did the second I pulled the trigger, but that doesn’t mean I don’t hurt for the man in my arms. To save Constantine, I had to kill Aleksei, but I could never kill Aleksander.
I’ve processed that day at the Knight estate a million times.
Walking out of the gardens. Seeing Aleksander holding a gun to Tristan’s head.
I had the shot lined up. It would have been so easy.
But something deep inside me, something Aoife could feel the moment she saw him—couldn’t do it.
Sliding my hand over my hip, I casually palm my stomach. I know I can never replace what Aleksander has lost, but I hope this baby is his. Maybe a girl with light-gray eyes and blonde hair and smart like her father, or a boy with my blue eyes, his dimples, with a heart as big and wonderful as his.
“Seems like your stalking tendencies started at a young age.” I smile as I caress a fingertip over his mouth when he looks at me to see if I’m joking.
Sometimes it’s difficult for him to pick up on subtle nuances, like teasing or sarcasm.
“I know how lonely I would’ve been at that school.
Having you close by, a friend to help ease the loneliness, would have been nice. ”
If things hadn’t changed and life moved on the way it was supposed to, the guys would’ve been at school at Switzerland, then at DF for college, and I would have been by myself at an all-girl’s boarding school.
Alone and miserable. Thank fuck that never happened. Then again, the reason why it didn’t…
I’m stopped from plummeting into that black hole of ugly memories when a folded piece of paper falls out from between the pages of his journal and lands on Aleksander’s chest. He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his apprehension when I open it.
Curious, I sit up and read the first line. A salutation. My name. “You wrote me a letter?”
I’ve never gotten a handwritten letter before.
Everything today is communicated through text messages, video chats, DMs, or an occasional email.
Letters are special. More personal. They take time and consideration to craft.
The words mean something more in a letter because the writer puts thought into what they want to say.
Aleksander blushes again. “Yeah. It’s stupid.”
I smack his arm. “It is not stupid. It’s sweet. Now hush so I can read it,” I reply, eager to devour every sentence written in his precise penmanship.
Dear Aoife,
I’ll never send you this letter. I don’t even know why I’m writing it.
I think I just needed to talk to you, even if you’re hundreds of miles away.
I thought I’d be there with you, but Father refused to let me attend Stanton Prep.
I hate him. I hate how he controls me and Aleksei and Mama.
I hate the Society and its stupid rules.
I just want to be free. I want to be normal.
Do you ever feel that way? All the expectations that everyone puts on you to be a certain way, act a certain way, play a role you never wanted.
Become a person you never wanted to be. I don’t want to hurt people.
I don’t want to ruin people’s lives just to get more money, more power, more control.
But that’s who we’re born to become. To fit this mold our parents or the Society mandates. It’s so asinine.
Sorry. I didn’t mean to dump all that on you.
My day has been pretty crappy. Father hit Mama again.
Gave her a black eye. I tried to stop him.
In a way, I did. He turned his fists on me when I got between them.
I wanted it that way. If he was hitting me, he wasn’t hitting her.
My cheek is swollen, and my back hurts, but it’s not too bad. I’ve had worse.
How about we talk about something else? Like the stars.
I’m looking at them right now from my window.
At last year’s gala, I followed you and Tristan and the guys to the roof.
I watched you laugh and dance and talk about the constellations you found.
You looked happy and seeing you happy made me happy.
You don’t know this, but I’ve had a crush on you for a long time.
Ever since you said hi to me in the hallway at school.
You didn’t care that I was awkward or quiet.
You didn’t make fun of me like Hendrix did because I stuttered.
I sometimes did that when I was nervous.
I don’t anymore. But that one small act of kindness stuck with me.
Those five days of seeing your smile every morning when I arrived at school changed my life. I’ve always wondered what would have happened between us if Father had let Aleksei and me stay in school. Would we have become good friends? Would we have become more?
At every gala, I would look for the girl with the blonde hair and blue eyes, wanting to approach you, to talk to you, but I was too afraid to.
It took me years to gather the courage to ask you to dance.
You looked so pretty in your dress. Like a princess.
I hope I get another chance to ask you to dance next year. I hope you say yes.
What else can I write about? How about I tell you some things about myself?
I’m not good with words. Not in the way that implies, anyway.
I tend to overthink things or take things too literally.
If you tell me a joke, I probably won’t get it.
Mama says it’s because my brain is like a computer.
I process information analytically. It’s why I’m different.
At least, that’s how it feels. Have you ever felt like you were born the wrong person?
Sometimes, I wish I could unzip my skin like a caterpillar molts its exoskeleton, then reemerge from my chrysalis as the person I was supposed to be all along.
Sorry again. I tend to go off on tangents.
Let’s see…I like to read. My favorite book is Hatchet because Brian, the main character, is a badass.
He’s a kid like us, who uses his skills to survive in the wilderness when his plane crashes.
Father took it away from me and tossed it in the fireplace because he said I needed to read books that were “more intellectually stimulating.” His exact words, followed by, “An effective ruler must understand how to acquire and maintain power, even if it means employing morally questionable methods, deception, or use of force to achieve political objectives.” He then handed me a copy of The Prince and told me to memorize it.
It took me only a few hours. I have an eidetic memory.
The next day, Mama gave me a used paperback of Hatchet she was given by one of the servants and told me to hide it. I keep it under my mattress because Father will never look there.
What else can I tell you? I like the color yellow because it reminds me of your hair.
My second favorite color is blue. You can probably guess why.
My best friend is Pyotr. He’s really funny and gets me in a way no one else does, not even Aleksei.
That’s my brother, but you already know that.
Here’s something you don’t know. Aleksei isn’t my only brother.
That was supposed to be a secret. I haven’t told anyone, not even Aleksei.
One day, I’ll tell you. Just not today. Maybe after we’re married.
But you don’t know that yet, either, about the marriage thing.
Your mother and my father signed a contract. One day, you’ll be my wife, and I’ll be your husband. I promise I will make you happy. Every chance I get, I’ll do something to make you smile. If you can’t already tell, I really like your smiles.
That sounds completely dumb, even on paper. I think I’m going to end this letter now. But thank you for listening to me ramble. It’s helped a lot.
If you are looking at the night sky right now, I’ll be the brightest star you see, Vega. It’s part of the constellation Lyra, the harp.
Until we meet again,
Aleksander
It’s mindboggling how something as simple as showing a small kindness can change someone else’s life.
Carefully folding the paper back into its original shape, I press it to my breastbone and wipe at the wetness dripping from my eyes as the floodgates of my heart open wide for this incredible man who has loved me his entire life.
How could I forget that he used to go to my school?
I know it was only five days, but still.
Perhaps I didn’t forget. Perhaps it’s one of those pieces that’s still missing in the fractured ether of my mind.
Even after all this time, I’m recalling things that I lost that night.
Last month, I was cooking dinner with Hendrix when I remembered the squirrel I found in the backyard when I was four.
Just went right up to it and picked it up.
I snuck it into my room, intending to keep it as a pet, but it got out and scared the shit out of Mama when it jumped on her head.
“Can I have this?” I ask.
“It’s always been yours,” he replies, flipping over onto his back and laying his head in my lap, those storm-cloud eyes gazing up at me.
Leaning to the side, I reach for the nightstand drawer where my journal lives and tuck the letter under the front cover with my pressed clover and other flowers Tristan has given to me over the years.