Page 58 of Ivory Ashes

21

VIVIANA

This feels nice.

“This feels nice?!” I mutter, jabbing two fingers into my forehead like maybe I can reach into my brain and scoop out whatever microchip Mikhail must have planted there while I slept. There’s no other explanation, right? I mean, I hugged him. He made me cry… and then I hugged him! If that’s not a sign of some high-level brainwashing, I don’t know what is.

As if my life wasn’t already on some janky, nightmarish carnival—the kind that doesn’t just leave you hurling up your funnel cake, but also severs your legs off at the knees—things just went even more sideways.

The worst part is, I can still feel the gnaw of disappointment in my stomach. The ache that was ready to be filled by Mikhail’s lips and hands and whatever other body parts he wanted to offer up.

I know what almost happened between us in that kitchen was a mistake—but I also can’t stop thinking about it.

Sure, I’ve had mind-melting sex with Mikhail and carried his baby, but we never exactly cuddled. I kind of assumed he would feel cold and sterile like a gynecologist’s exam table. But when I leaned against his chest, I wanted to curl up there. I did curl up there! A crime for which I’ll never forgive myself. Because now, I know what it feels like to snuggle with Mikhail and I’ll never be the same.

Especially because he all but rejected me.

I never want to see you without this on.

I twirl the hideous ring I chose for myself around my ring finger where Mikhail placed it. I should have thought about the consequences of my little prank long-term. It was fun to see Mikhail’s reaction to the rings for a split second, but now, I have to actually wear the damn thing.

I have to wear this ring and live in this house and be married to Mikhail.

After everything I did to get free…

I sold my soul to the devil to escape this world, but here I am. It was all for nothing.

When I look down at my hand again, all I see is imaginary blood. Crusted to my knuckles, dripping between my fingers. I close my fist and swear I feel the cold handle of a knife against my palm.

My heart races, thundering against my rib cage until I’m shaking.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

I’m in Mikhail’s mansion. I’m alone. I’m okay.

I never thought being in Mikhail’s house would be a comfort, but I repeat the mantra to myself until the clamp around my chest loosens slightly.

When I open my eyes and look down, my hand is clean. The blood is gone. Before I can dwell on my Lady Macbeth moment too long, I hear whimpering coming from the hallway.

Dante.

I wrench open my bedroom door and am halfway across the hall before I smack directly into a wall of muscle. A bare-chested wall of muscle, actually.

As if my cheek has a very specific form of muscle memory, I know it’s Mikhail even before he grabs my shoulders to steady me.

We stand there for a second. Just long enough to prove that his abs are every bit as fitness-magazine perfect as I thought they would be.

Then the whimpering coming from Dante’s room rises to a full-on cry.

Mikhail lets me go and slips into Dante’s room before I have full use of my legs again. Once I follow him inside, his muscular back blocks my view of what’s happening until he kneels down next to Dante’s bed.

“What’s going on, mal’chik?” he asks, voice surprisingly tender.

Dante is sitting up, his blue eyes wide and shimmering in the soft glow of his nightlight, his lower lip pouted out. “I had a bad dream.”

We have a routine for this. I lie down in bed with him and stroke his hair until he falls asleep. It’s the only thing that has ever worked to calm him down.

I’m about to shove Mikhail aside and crawl next to Dante when, instead, Mikhail reaches for Dante’s hand.

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