Page 2 of Bound By Hate (Born in Blood)

It’s just annoying when no one is worthy of me.

Feeling incredibly annoyed, I go into the kitchen and grab a piece of cheese. I don’t hesitate to eat it. This is my punishment for my intrusive thoughts—eat food I know I shouldn’t.

My ankle twinges in pain as I rest my weight on it. A few months ago, I broke my ankle during a ballet dance with Sofiya. It’s healed now, but I’m still in physical therapy, meaning I haven’t danced ballet in months, and I miss it terribly. Unlike Sofiya, who didn’t care that much about ballet despite doing it with Mila and me to please our father, I love ballet. I love dance. I can’t imagine my life without it.

But for these past months, I’ve had to, and I’ve been eating to help with the pain of it. I know I’m not as stick thin as I used to be, but once I’m ready to dance again, all will be well.

I know it.

I head upstairs and knock on Mila’s bedroom door. Without waiting for a reply, I open the door to find her … writing. No, not writing. Drawing.

When she should be dancing.

“What are you doing?” I ask her, making her jump. Her golden hair bounces right along with her.

That’s the thing about us sisters. We were known as the Three Blonde Ballet Dancers. Me with my platinum hair, Sofiya with her dark blonde hair, and Mila with her golden tresses. All different shades, but all still blonde. I think people liked to fetishize us when we danced on stage together. It never bothered me. As long as I was dancing, nothing else mattered.

Mila quickly puts her sketch pad down. “Nothing.”

“Why aren’t you practicing your steps? In just a few short months, you’ll be the lead inRomeo and Juliet. You need to be prepared.” I always dreamed of having the role of Juliet, but I lost out on it because of my ankle. Mila got the part instead.

“I already practiced,” Mila says, not meeting my eyes, which tells me she’s lying.

“You know how important this is to me. You need to be ready.”

“I know it’s important to you, Vik.” I hate when Mila speaks in a kind, soft tone. It makes it harder for me to be annoyed with her. “I’ll practice right now.” She gets up and starts dancing.

I watch her for a moment. “You need to work on your pirouette. It’s getting sloppy.”

“Of course.” She spins faster and faster until she stumbles.

“Mila. Be better.”

She tries again, but just as before, she trips over her feet.

“What’s going on with you?” I ask. “I could do that spin in my sleep.”

“Well, I’m not you,” she snaps, surprising me.

“I’m just trying to help. You landed this role. You need to take it seriously.”

Mila sighs and bows her head, nodding. “I know. I will. I’ll practice harder. I’ll make you proud, Vik.”

“Good. I know you will.” Hesitating, I reach out my hand to touch her arm, but I drop it at the last moment. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Practice. Don’t waste your time drawing.” I turn to leave, and when I glance back, I see Mila take in a deep breath and begin to move.

Shutting her door, I lean against it. I need to be nicer to her. She just went through something traumatic less than a month ago. Mila and I had to go to Moscow for Mikhail’s protection to get away from a man named Boris, who took over after our father died. He wanted to marry Mila, so he followed us to Moscow and kidnapped her and Sofiya. They both survived, unharmed, with Sofiya killing Boris and another man, Andrei, who was in cahoots with Boris.

Mila didn’t even have to kill anyone.

But ever since we returned to New York, just her and me, I’ve noticed she’s been out of it lately. Surely, it must be from that. If I were Sofiya, I’d empathize with Mila. I’d tell her everything is going to be ok.

But I’m not soft like Sofiya.

I’m hard. I’m Viktoriya. The Ice Queen.

And I don’t empathize with people. I don’t offer comfort to others. It’s not my natural setting.

But now, Mila is stuck with just me, and I don’t know how to help her. Ballet means everything to us. Hopefully, when she just focuses on that, everything will be ok for her.

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