Page 90 of Wicked Serve

“Of course.” He kisses my temple. “You’re my daughter, and I love you.”

“Everyone should say those words more often,” Mom says, the door to the gym shutting behind her with a rush of cold air. “Did I miss practice?”

I look at Dad. He just raises an eyebrow. Before, I’d have said it was a challenge, but now I recognize it as encouragement. I pick up the volleyball and toss it to Mom. “Guess who has a wedding planning gig?”

Half an hour later, I’m breathless with laughter, watching Mom jostle Dad for the volleyball. I’m not sure when our straightforward practice devolved into a volleyball-basketball hybrid, but I’m not complaining.

“Your point! Your point!” Dad says, throwing the volleyball like it’s a football. It sails through the air, landing in front of me with a smack. He lets Mom push him against the gym wall, kissing him.

I wrinkle my nose, but I’m smiling. “I’m going back to the house.”

“Start your playlist for New Year’s karaoke!” Mom calls. “Rich, don’t you dare—”

Outside the gym, I hurry down the path to the house, still beaming. I didn’t bring a jacket with me, and it’s cold enough that my breath looks like smoke. I feel so much lighter. I should have had that conversation with Dad weeks ago. I’m not entirely certain where I stand with volleyball right now, but at least I have some time to think. To reflect.

I round a corner and see Nik leaning against a tree, his back to me as he talks to someone on the phone.

“You’re back from training early!” I smile even wider, stepping around a patch of ice. Nik and Cooper went to a nearby rink for a skate, and I wasn’t expecting them back until dinner. “Guess what?”

He looks over. His face is a stiff mask. The phone falls from his fingers, hitting the ground. He flinches at the sound, eyes wide, hand curling and uncurling in a fist. His body is as tense as when we argued after my conversation with Alexis.

I stop in my tracks. My heart starts to pound. Last time, I thought that expression meant he didn’t care, but I know better now. I take a couple careful steps forward. “Babe? What’s the matter?”

“It’s New Year’s Eve.”

“I know,” I say, still inching closer. “Novy God in Russian, right? I looked into it a bit, I thought maybe we could—”

He shakes his head once, violently, effectively cutting me off. His chest rises and falls rapidly. His scar stands out like a brand. I pick up his phone, tucking it into my pocket, and cup his cheek with my cold hand.

“Talk to me, Nik, please.”

He says something in Russian, then curses in English, then knocks my hand away.

“My father...” He trails off, clenching his jaw. “My father, he...”

“What?” I say, searching those wide, panicked eyes. I want to hug him, but I’m afraid he’ll push me away again. “He what?”

His eyes shutter. “He tried to kill my mother on New Year’s Eve.”

Chapter 44

Nikolai

Isabelle stares as panic twists my insides. I’m skating at full speed into a brick fucking wall. Half of my body is numb, the other on fire. I retch, turning to press my face against the rough bark of the nearest tree.

I’ve never said those words aloud before. Not like that. Whenever I’ve spoken about that night—the night my father put me in the hospital and we finally, finally left—I’ve kept that to myself.

The world hasn’t shattered, now that I’ve said it. But I do feel different. A little more broken than before, as if the last piece of me just cracked. I gag again. My lungs are burning, but I can’t get in enough air.

“Hey,” she says softly. Her hands cover my trembling shoulders. She pulls me away from the tree, wiping my mouth with her sleeve. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Leave me alone.”

“Come inside, it’s freezing out here.”

I try to twist out of her grip, but she’s tenacious. There’s a burning in her eyes, a fierceness I don’t deserve. She half drags me to the house, and everything blurs as she takes me upstairs. My feet feel like stone. Each breath is a knife, twisting into my lungs. I struggle to push my father’s voice out of my head. I can’t quite manage it, and I definitely can’t banish the memory of my mother’s tearstained face, or the raw scream that sent me running from my room—

“Nik,” a blue-eyed angel says. Her thumb rubs my scar tenderly. “Take a deep breath.”

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