Page 141 of Wicked Serve

“Fine,” she says, her breath catching on the word. “But talk to your goddamn mother.”

Finally, finally, I hear her leave.

I grab the nearest object—a paperweight with a hockey puck in the middle—and hurl it across the room.

Chapter 67

Nikolai

I’m not sure how much time passes.

After keeping such a tight lid on myself for so long, it’s not hard to find other things to break. Glass sparkles on the floor in the moonlight, crunching underneath my boots as I pace. My mouth tastes sour; I heaved into my wastebasket when I saw the shattered paperweight. I sweat through my clothes long ago, and chewed the inside of my cheek long enough to make it bleed.

Still, I pace. I pace and try to breathe.

At least I’m alone. At least the nightmares running through my mind aren’t reality.

I’ll be alone forever if it means not hurting her.

Someone knocks on the door. I tense, imagining Isabelle, but it’s my mother’s voice that I hear.

“Nika?” she says softly. “Are you in there?”

Another old, well-loved nickname. I stare at the door, ignoring the throbbing in my shoulder.

This is what Isabelle asked of me. The last thing before I pushed her away. I might’ve fucked everything up, but I can do this for her.

I pull the door open.

Mom’s gaze sweeps over me. I open my mouth, unsure what excuse to muster up, but before I can speak, she yanks me into a hug.

“You’re okay.” She pushes my hair away from my forehead, inspecting me. “Thank God you’re okay.”

I’m frozen. She hasn’t hugged me like this in what feels like forever. I’m not sure what’s more surprising: the embrace, or the fact she’s here at all.

She peers around me, taking in the glass, the trashed room. “Where’s Izzy?”

I clear my throat; my voice is rusty. “Not here.”

“Are you still panicking?” She leads me to the bed and sets me on the edge, fretting needlessly with the collar of my shirt. “Was this the first time, or has it happened before?”

I just stare as she sits next to me. She’s usually so put together, but right now, she isn’t wearing makeup, and she’s in leggings and a pullover sweatshirt.

She turns on my bedside lamp, giving the room a yellowy glow. “Should we do a breathing exercise together?”

“I’m fine,” I say automatically. “You didn’t have to drive all the way here.”

“I left the moment Izzy called.”

My throat constricts as I remember the look on her face when I told her to leave. The way she jumped when my voice got loud. My mind refuses to shut off that particular memory.

At least I didn’t hurt her. I could feel myself shaking apart, utterly out of control. I’d never been so terrified—not for myself, but for her. If she refused to leave, I don’t know what would have happened.

“Why?”

Something crosses her face, too fast for me to parse. “Is this new, Nika? How long has it been going on?”

“You haven’t called me that in ages.”

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