I let out a snort.
Hell, Disney was the opposite of my life.
I gripped one of the bedposts and leaned against it, then looked at the screen on my phone.
I clicked through my pictures until there was one of me and Breaker at New Year’s two years ago. He was smiling so big, and he was also trying to steal my earmuffs.
He said we shouldn’t have evidence of our kissing because Dante, the Alfero boss, could hack our phones in our sleep, but I hadn’t cared.
“Kiss me,” I taunted, holding the phone up in selfie mode. “And make it good.”
Breaker tugged me against his chest. He brushed my face with one finger, running it from my forehead down to my chin, then tilting my face toward his.
“I’m always good.”
“And arrogant. You’re always that too.”
He bit down on his bottom lip then grazed mine with his teeth. “You like the arrogance, admit it, it gets you off.”
I gave him a shove, but he hauled me back into his arms and kissed me senseless until I thought I might actually die with the need to rip his clothes off.
And then when he was done, he grabbed my phone and snapped a photo.
His eyes were closed.
He was kissing my forehead with such tenderness that I had a hard time even looking at the picture without wanting to burst into angry sobs.
“Where are you when I need you most?” I whispered into the silent room. “I would have given you everything…”
“Ready?” A chipper Sancto popped his head in the room. “Because I have an army here.” He held out a flute of champagne. “Congratulations are in order, to the future Mrs. Valerian Petrov.”
With trembling fingers, I grabbed the glass and held it high with my perfect politician’s daughter smile, the one that stole pieces of my soul each time I used it, and said, “Cheers, to my future husband. Valerian. Petrov.”
Chapter Eight
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake. —Robert Frost
Breaker
I was too sober.
And she was a vision.
My eyes burned.
My heart thudded its final beats in my chest as if to say I’m sorry, but we can’t take it—it burns.
Fire twisted inside my veins, altering every part of me, creating a monster I hadn’t even known was still present after all this time.
It became my worst nightmare as I watched.
I couldn’t look away.
Save me, my pulse beat.
Kill me. My heart died.
I’m all that’s left… my soul bled.
And nobody was there to pick up the pieces.
Nobody was there to hear my scream.
Nobody was there.
Nobody.
Nobody.
I put my fist in my mouth to keep from losing my sanity from hearing my own perilous scream.
“Take it back,” I whispered. “Take it back.”
And as she smiled her fake smile at her new kingdom.
I experienced true death.
Because the Violet Abandonato I had sworn to protect—wasn’t attending her wedding, but her funeral, because her old self was already dead.
And I was the only one she could blame.
“Forgive me—” I whispered into the cool night air “—for showing you the knight, when the whole time, I was the wolf. Forgive me, God. Forgive me. Amen.”
Chapter Nine
Three times I had the lust to kill,
To clutch a throat so young and fair,
And squeeze with all my might until
No breath of being lingered there. —Robert W. Service
Valerian
I adjusted the red and black mask across my face. It covered everything but the lower part of my mouth and chin. My reflection seemed to stare back at me in a way that made me want to immediately look away. A black hooded robe was pulled up over my head to symbolize the respect and humility I would need to show during the ceremony—after all, it wasn’t just a wedding—it was a coronation.
One I had never expected.
At least the robe hid the scars.
Inside and out.
“She’s ready,” Sancto said, knocking on the door even though he’d been told numerous times he didn’t need to. “And might I say, she’s a vision.”
“Even if she wasn’t…” I whispered to my own reflection. “My love would make it so.”
Sancto put a hand across his chest. “See? I always knew you were a romantic, even after that one time where you slit that guy’s throat for—”
I shot him a glare through the mirror.
He held up his hands. “Yup, message received, let’s head downstairs. The music has started, and Nikolai wants a word.”
I kept the bitter laugh in. Of course, Nikolai wanted a word. I was just curious if it was with actual words or knives and his own special shot of drugs that stopped your heart before you even felt the prick of the needle.
This was happening, I thought, as I followed Sancto out of the master bedroom, and then I was counting the slow thuds of my heart as the music filled the massive living room, spilling into the ballroom usually reserved for holidays.