Epilogue
Three Years Ago
He’s my hopeless romantic whereas Enzo is my defiant dreamer.
Both traits I have encouraged since they were young, both traits their father wants to force out of them. Traits my Dimitri had.
Ever since their uncle was killed, there’s been a large part of my heart longing to see a defiance in my boys, a defiance toward their father. But it’s been a delicate balance I’ve had to nurture.
Too defiant, Dante would hurt them. Possibly kill one of them—he only needs one son as he’s always threatened me with. Too close with their father, he will snuff the compassionate, moral light I have kept flickering inside them.
Like shielding a flame in a blizzard, I have endured for them.
Dante’s never been a kind man. How he differed so drastically from his own twin is something I’ll never understand. And as soon as Dimitri was out of the way, he didn’t hesitate to take what was his brother’s.
I can only hope my own boys don’t form a relationship built on jealousy. I’ve done what I can over the last eighteen years, but there is no more I can do. From here, they go off to lead a life as made men.
But not all made men are evil, as I discovered when I fell for the first man to show me kindness, love, and compassion. I risked everything for Dimitri, and I don’t regret it. I wouldn’t have my boys without the sacrifices I’ve made.
A small rustling draws my ears to the window, between the crackling fire and classical music filtering through the library, anyone else would have missed it. But I’m not anyone.
I don’t turn toward the sound. Instead, I let them approach as I slide a blade from the sleeve of my sweater, the one I always keep tucked away. My gaze wanders the page of the book, waiting and listening.
Soft footfalls approach behind and I face them. Two long blades cross at my neck, my own knife presses into the throat of a young girl.
Dressed in white.
No older than fifteen.
My replacement.
She gasps, not expecting the sharp edge against her throat. But I’d never kill her. I was her. It was only meant to stop her so I could speak with her.
I knew he would send her for me as soon as she was trained. Betraying and defecting from the Romanova family is an offense punishable by death and it was a choice I made.
A choice I’m proud of because it gave me my boys.
Of course, I anticipated Alexey would send her. He’s always had a flair for the dramatic. At least I had the opportunity to raise my sons because I knew what I would have to do when she came.
“Katya Romanova,” I say and her muscles freeze, pupils dilating until they nearly take over her unique irises. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“Wh—you know my name?”
“I’ve been waiting for you.” I pull my knife from her throat and back away, but she takes a step closer, keeping the sharp steel against my skin. Smart girl.
“Why?” The crack in her voice betrays her fearlessness. She’s trying so hard to be what they want her to be, but I can see her softness.
“Sweet girl, I am sorry you were forced into this life.”
She grits her teeth as tears brim her lower lids, but through training, she denies their fall. “I don’t need your apology.”
“There is a better life for you, Katya. A life you can choose.”
“Like you did? A life on the run?”
“Have I been running? I’ve known love, Katya. Can you say the same?”
Her pupils dilate, taking in what I’ve said, and she sniffles. “You don’t know me.”
She’s wrong. I know her because I was her.
Sure, I wasn’t stolen from my family, but I went through the same training, the same torture, the same manipulation and I experienced it from my own brother.
I bear scars across my back from his lashings for each failure, and I have no doubt she bears the same.
I know the ending of tonight and I’ve been ready for it for some time. I’ve been ready for the mercy death will bring me—from the release of Dante’s hands on my body, from the heartache I’ve grown accustomed to, living every day without Dimitri by my side.
My only thought is for my boys, hoping I have left them with enough light to outshine what is about to stain their souls.
They will hate her for what they believe she has done.
But I hope they will see that the events of tonight were inevitable.
I hope they will believe her if they ever face her themselves.
I hope she will be brave enough to trust them.
Stepping back, her blades fall, and I walk over to my journal and pick up the white feather quill and write one last message to my boys, closing the journal and praying they will see it before it’s too late.
Then I stand, still holding the quill, and walk toward this young girl who stands as a reflection of myself. “Raise your blades, Katya.”
“What?”
“It is your life, or mine.” I set the quill down on the mantle next to us, watching as she diligently tracks my movement as I intended and snatch her wrists, crossing her blades at my neck. “And you still have a story to write, milaya devochka.”
She’s strong, fighting against me. I numb my mind for the pain to come, using every bit of my strength to pull her into me, knocking her off balance as she collides into me.
Searing pain ignites the flesh at my neck as warmth drips down my chest, but I hold her to me still, fighting through tears to keep her close.
Her unique eyes blow wide as they bounce back and forth between my own and the wounds on my neck.
Something profound shifts in her once glimmering irises, the innocence she faintly clung to fleeing with her first kill.
Everything becomes light, my vision swirling and my legs give out. She follows me down, tears tracking down her pale cheeks. “No. No. No!” she cries as she puts pressure on the wounds but I know I’ve nicked my carotid. Not enough to bleed out instantly, but it won’t be long.
“You’re strong—” My throat ignites as my vocal cords try to form words around the pain. “Enough…”
As I slowly slip from this world, I’m no longer able to utter words. I glance back to the quill, begging her to take it. I’m not entirely sure why at this moment it’s so important for her to have a piece of me…but it is.
I want her to remember for us, strength is not measured by what we’ve endured but by what we’ve sacrificed.
She follows my line of sight and stands, collecting the quill and handing it to me, but I push it into her chest. She still has a story to write.
Snapping the quill, she guides the soft feather into my fingers and holds my hands with the grip of a fighter as I slip further and further from my boys, but closer to mercy.
“Prostite menya,” forgive me, she whispers.
You’re forgiven.