Octavia
I didn’t think I could hate myself more than I already did.
Apparently, I was wrong.
For days now, the kiss has replayed in my head without reprieve. Not just the act itself, but the moment it broke something I believed had already been destroyed.
Shame and guilt, tangled with betrayal, twist together, accompanied by emotions I refuse to name.
He didn’t do it.
He is not one of them.
The truth lodges inside me.
The disgust in his eyes when she said it. The way something in him recoiled.
Markev would never commit that kind of crime.
I know it as surely as I know my own name.
And I hate that I know it.
Yesterday, I went into town with my sister, making space for some much needed time together.
We spent the entire day at the salon, moving easily from one appointment to the next—nails, waxing, massages, pedicures—without once checking the time.
I refreshed the pink in my hair and had it trimmed slightly.
I should have felt relaxed, yet the entire time I felt anything but.
My skin prickled throughout, unsettled by the persistent sensation of being watched.
I never once saw him, but I felt him all the same, that unmistakable awareness curling low at the base of my spine. I cannot be certain it was Markev, though I am convinced it was him regardless.
Ophelia kept glancing over her shoulder, which only confirmed what I already suspected, she felt it too.
I am more than certain Arlo was following her as well, two insufferable pricks who apparently have nothing better to do than trail us through town.
Still, I would almost prefer knowing for certain that it was Markev. I don’t appreciate being followed, but if I must endure it, I would rather it be at the hands of that particular obsessive psychopath.
Another thought presses in regardless.
What if it wasn’t him at all?
What if the person who attacked me is still watching, waiting for the right moment to strike again?
Adriano is looking into it to no avail.
One Markev has already taken care of the bodies, and I see little point in asking him to recover anything for identification, knowing Markev, whatever evidence remained is likely ash by now.
Nevertheless, the attack has left me unsettled, more so because I don’t know who they were, what they wanted, or whether they intend to act again.
So my men continue hunting without results, and I carry on with my life as though that uncertainty is not sitting just beneath my skin.
As I keep reminding myself, this last year was meant to be about freedom, before I take over from my father.
This was supposed to be just art, friendships, which, after what Adelaide did, have narrowed almost entirely to my sister… and Death.
Now, I find myself burdened with yet another concern, avoiding being killed.
I pull on a cream Chanel jumper, slide into a pair of jeans, my UGG boots, a jacket, and loop a scarf around my neck.
I make coffee quickly and pour it into a to go cup.
My setup is nowhere near as excessive as my sister’s—hers is imported from Italy, complete with a full barista arrangement—but it serves its purpose.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and close the door, making certain the key card is on me.
The lift doors are already sliding shut, so I hurry to press the button, and they part again.
Adelaide is inside, typing furiously on her phone. She looks up, meets my eyes, and offers a thin, contemptuous smile.
I roll my eyes. The audacity of that woman appears to be boundless.
She steps aside to let me enter. “Go on in,” she says sweetly. “Don’t worry… I’m not going to hurt you.”
I step inside and press the button for the lower floor, ignoring the dull pang in my chest at the sight of my once friend.
She is the one who destroyed us, and if anyone deserves to feel the weight of that, it’s her.
What stings more, however, is not only that she had her sniper trained on my sister, but that she knows. She is the only person who does. Not even my sister knows—and still, she forced me into it.
The doors open, and I step out.
“You used to be more fun,” she says behind me, her tone conversational. “Volatile. Now you’re just… boring.”
I smirk as I glance back at her.
“Sometimes,” I reply evenly, “being the bigger person means having the intellect to know when to remain silent and allow the foolish to speak for themselves.”
She narrows her eyes, then laughs briefly. “Between the two of us, intellect is not a word I would associate with you.”
I stop and turn back to her, taking a step closer.
“Look at us,” I say. “You and me. Look at Ophelia. Piper. And don’t even get me started on Eleanor. When was she last seen?” A tight smile forms. “That’s right, at that damned party.”
“You broke us,” I continue evenly. “And you still have the temerity to act nonchalant, to look for fights, to provoke me. You are the only one at fault in this story. You should be ashamed.”
She smirks, though it never reaches her eyes. “Not my style.”
“Fuck you.”
For a moment, she almost looks hurt.
But I don’t care. I turn and walk out into the cool, rain dampened air.
I decide to walk to the academy today instead of calling a driver.
I need the space before the day begins, before I have to socialise, and, more importantly, before I spend hours resisting the urge to stab Markev.
I sense someone behind me, and my spine straightens instinctively.
A hand lands on my shoulder, tugging me in as if for a side embrace. I react without thinking, catching the wrist and twisting it back hard, managing it even with my coffee cup still in my other hand.
“Ah, fuck,” a familiar voice groans. “Did I ever tell you how perfectly suited you are to me?”
“Markev,” I grind out.
“Yes, baby.”
“Stop with the nicknames,” I snap, tightening my grip.
“When you show me that violent side,” he says calmly, “it only makes me hard, and these jeans are already doing me no favours.”
I release him abruptly and step back. “You’re disgusting.”
He straightens, towering over me, dressed in nothing but a sweatshirt and denim, his hair a total mess, obviously on purpose.
I start walking, and he falls into step beside me, his stride so long that three of mine barely match one of his.
“I wanted some peace this morning,” I mutter.
And don’t be fooled, this psycho follows me every morning, from the dorm to the academy and back again.
Usually, he has the decency to give me space and keep his distance. Apparently, today is not one of those days.
“How so?” he asks.
“I was walking,” I say, “taking slow breaths, counting them, trying to gather the patience required to sit in a room with you for the rest of the day.”
He chuckles, entirely too pleased with himself.
“Oh, also,” I add, glancing at him, “I did a ritual last night, midnight on the dot. Candles, witchy books, red lipstick. I summoned someone to get rid of you. Clearly, it didn’t work.”
He smiles darkly. “I suppose not.”
“I’ll try again tonight.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”
I keep walking. This stretch suddenly feels considerably too long with him at my side, when it is usually over entirely too quickly.
I can feel his attention on me constantly.
He doesn’t look ahead even once, only at me, as though the world exists solely in my direction.
I keep my eyes forward as I say, “You’ve just stepped in shit.”
He laughs, and the sound catches me off guard because it is real… unguarded, nothing like his usual fake ones.
“Is that your attempt at making me look away from your beautiful face?” he asks. “Because that was a poor effort, and frankly, you can do better.”
I ignore him, because at this point, there’s little else left to do.