71. Octavia
The house is under construction. Again. I’d find Father’s new saferoom amusing had it not wrecked all of my diagrams. He pretends to be untouchable, but a single intruder breaching the perimeter had the coward phoning up builders in the late hours of the night.
I’m sure if something did happen, he’d slam the door in my face and twist the lock. He’s already traded in my worth to Sasha Siderov. After the wedding, I’ll be nothing more than a played card in one of his drunken games.
My knees crunch against stone as I’m shoved through the threshold. The impact aches all the way down to my bones, and I grip the ground to steady myself.
If I’d shown Vasiliy that chapter, he would never have allowed me to walk into this house alone. He knows me too well. Seeing as this information wouldn’t have helped Ivan and my cousins fight on the front lines or aid Vasiliy in his sidequest through the crawlspace, I chose to keep it to myself.
But, as I brace my hands on my knees and straighten, I am wholly unprepared for the eyes that gaze back.
“Kirill?”
The soft word bounces further than I anticipated, a testament to how large this room truly is.
The walls and ceiling are made of the same sturdy rock as the floor, and weapons hang along one side like free samples in a candy shop.
I glance back, watching the three soldiers who dragged me up here slip inside with Popov and lock the door with some heavy iron mechanism.
“O…Octavia?”
Breath whooshes out from my burning lungs. Blazing chestnut eyes. The voice is worn and ragged, and yet, still the most beautiful thing I’ve heard in my entire life. I scramble up, racing to the dark corner as fast as my feet can take me.
My hands ghost over his pale arms, wary of angering one of the many injuries littering his skin. He’s here. He’s alive. A dark substance coats him, thickening near the hand huddled into his side.
“No. You can’t be real…”
“I know,” I choke, swallowing thickly. “But I am.” One of my hands finds his free arm, chained up to the wall. “I’m real.”
“Stop.” He buries his face into his huddled knees. “You’re not, and I can’t take this. I can’t…I can’t.”
My chest constricts.
It’s been months in the light, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget the false phantoms that teased me in the dark cell.
“Are you enjoying your wedding gift?”
My assessment halts. Kirill flinches at the amused tone, pressing further against the wall.
“It’s a bit premature, I’ll admit, but we’ll tie up the loose ends after this annoyance is dealt with.”
My fingers grip Kirill’s chained wrist. I’m careful not to touch the other hand—the one that reeks of infection and stale blood. My ribs ache, remembering where his missing ring lies.
Vasiliy was supposed to get him out. A scream of frustration builds in my lungs until I can no longer hold it in. The horror rips out of me. Tears prick my eyes, blurring my vision. I’m so sick of holding bloody hands and praying for their owners’ hearts to keep beating.
“No one can hear you, dear,” the haughty voice says from my back. “Your mother fell to tears often, too. I suppose it’s a family trait.”
How dare he speak of her pain? The footsteps are nearing, but all I can do is curl protectively over Kirill. Salt drips down my lips.
Suddenly, the door shakes beneath a pounding fist. “Octavia! OCTAVIA!”
Vasiliy.
“Huh. I guess they can hear you. No matter, we’ll just wait it out until my men sweep the floor and execute the stragglers.”
At least that part went right. He was never supposed to enter this room. But Kirill was supposed to be safe on the outside, too. From my mother’s entries, I knew Popov would run here at the first sign of danger and likely take me with him. Cowardice is predictable.
My tears fall faster, and a genuine shiver rolls down my spine.
“Actually, the only time your mother didn’t break down was in the end. We tore her to pieces, you know. Your future husband spent hours with her in the basement, stripping her skin and chopping off her fingers.”
Vomit rises.
“She didn’t even look human when he was done. It was horribly upsetting to see my daughter like that, but we gave her every opportunity to reveal your location.”
Kirill blinks up at me like he still can’t decide whether I’m really there, even as my tears drip onto his chest.
I don’t realize I’m shrieking between cries until my throat starts to burn, but once I do, I can’t stop.
Vasiliy was going to get him out of this mess.
Dad should be alive, lounging in his reading chair and beating me in chess.
Mom was supposed to escape from this monster and live a full, vibrant life far away from this place.
Another scream rips out, and my throat burns beneath the force. I embrace the agony. I breathe it. I become it.
“Someone shut her up,” Popov snaps behind me. “I can’t listen to the dramatics anymore. So much shouting and crying…”
The floor vibrates beneath the weight of boots. I learned how to count footsteps months ago. My chest heaves beneath another sob, but Kirill gazes up at me with big, round pupils.
Probably because the tears are still wet on my cheeks, but my eyes have dried.
Faster than either can react, I shift my weight and extend one leg, tripping the guy on my left as my hands find the other’s ankle and pull. Both lose balance, falling to the floor as I rise.
“Behave yourself,” my grandfather warns, shuffling a step back towards the last guard at the door. I glance over to the display of guns on the wall, equidistant between him and me. He does the same, lips opening to reveal a sliver of white teeth.
We both move at once, charging towards that foolish row of weapons trussed up on the wall.
One of the soldiers on the ground makes a grab for my ankle, but his hand never makes contact, because Kirill snaps forward, looping his chain around the guy’s neck.
I don’t look back, not as I race to the display and pull one of the guns into my grip just before Popov arrives.
He swings for my head, but the move leaves him open.
My hook cracks against bone. He falls back to the stone, clutching his chin. Blood leaks out between his fingers.
The third soldier is no longer standing at the door by the time I look up.
“Look out!” Kirill cries from the floor, his chains still occupied with the guy’s throat.
Sure enough, the other two rush me from the back of the room.
But my finger has already slid into the trigger.
The kickback is consumed by my bicep like an old friend. All those hours I spent at the shooting range pay off in a single second. Not one shot goes wide. Each bullet burrows into flesh with a beautiful spray of red. A masterpiece.
“Stop this, Annika!” Popov demands, climbing to his feet.
I toss the gun from my grip as I turn, and even the circumstances can’t hinder the smile that slowly stretches my face. Guns are easy. Vengeance should be intricate. I lick my lips, tasting the splattering of blood there.
The man shifts back, attention bouncing between my eyes. I step closer, one hand reaching into my bun. Vasiliy’s gifted blade pin pulls free, leaving my long hair to tumble down my back.
“I don’t want to hurt you, but I will. Stop this at once!”
Hurt…me?
I tilt my head, taking another step. His gaze turns wild, flickering throughout the room. The weapons wall he won’t be able to reach in time. His soldier’s final gasp of air beneath Kirill’s chains. The gun sitting abandoned in a puddle of blood at my feet.
My mother thought she wasn’t strong enough to kill him.
But she was wrong.
She made me.
He makes a dive to run around me for the gun below. I lunge, my pin arcing through the air. The sharp end drags deep across his cheeks, and he shrieks in pain.
I fake him out, taking him to the ground with a leg maneuver when he dodges the hit. Though we go down hard, the impact doesn’t bother me in the slightest.
“Stop! A-Annika, stop thi…” He trails off, eyes widening when I lift the blade to the soft folds on his throat.
My tongue clicks. “Not quite,” I drawl, leaning closer. “My name is Octavia.”
With a bit of pressure and a gentle drag, his throat slices open beneath my blade.