Page 102 of Inked Athena

I stride toward the door, pausing with my hand on the handle. “One more thing.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“That ring you gave Nova? Mother’s ring?” I meet his eyes. “I remember the day you made her sign it over. Remember how you played that video of her choosing drugs over me. Over and over.”

His face pales.

“Touch my family again,” I say softly, “and I’ll make sure everyone knows exactly what kind of father you really are.”

A beat.

A long beat.

Too long.

My father’s face contorts into something monstrous as he swings the cue at my head.“Svoloch! Ublyudok!”

I catch the stick mid-arc, wood splintering in my grip. For a moment, we’re frozen in this grotesque dance—him snarling, me calculating exactly how much pressure it would take to drive the shattered cue through his throat.

But Nova’s upstairs. Carrying my child. My future.

I won’t stain our home with his worthless blood.

“I’m going to give you five minutes to leave,” I snarl. “If so much as a toe of yours is still on my property by the time those five minutes are up, I will sever it and drain you of every drop of toxic fucking blood left in your body. Do you understand me, Father?” I let the cue clatter to the floor between us. “Five minutes. Not a second more.”

He draws himself up, shoulders squared. “You dare?—”

“Four minutes, fifty seconds.” I check my watch. “Tick tock, old man.”

“This isn’t over.” His voice drops to a whisper. “You think you can protect them? Your littlekrasavitsa?Your bastard? Ilya will?—”

My hand finds his throat. Squeezes. Just enough to remind him how fragile life can be. “Four and a half minutes. Should I start counting body parts instead?”

He claws at my fingers, face purpling. I release him and he stumbles back, gasping.

“Four minutes.” I straighten my jacket. “I’d hurry if I were you. The roads are awfully dark this time of night.”

He snatches up his cane, backing toward the door, never turning away from me. “You’ll regret this.”

“Three minutes, forty-five.” I smile. “And Father? Next time you raise a hand to me, make sure you finish the job. Because I sure as fuck will.”

The door slams behind him. I count his uneven footsteps as he flees.

My phone buzzes. Nova.

Everything okay down there?

I type back:Never better, krasavitsa. Never better.

35

SAMUIL

Red bleeds into my vision as I stalk the castle corridors. My father’s words ricochet through my skull.

Your mother was weak. Your woman is weak. You, my son, are weak. And your child will be the weakest parts of each of you.

Each syllable drips with the same venom he used to poison my childhood, his voice still able to find those deep, raw places inside me where the scared little boy lives. The one who watched that video of his mother choosing drugs over him, over and over, until the truth was branded onto his bones.

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