Page 22 of Carved in Ruin

Anatoly studies me for a moment, then tips his glass in my direction. “You’ve thought of everything. By the time we’re done, Milos won’t even be a shadow of himself.”

I glance back at the sculpture, Mila’s face staring back at me with an expression I can’t quite name.

“Burn it all,” I mutter, more to myself than Anatoly. “Every last piece of him. No mercy.”

“You’re a ruthless bastard, Rafael.”

I know.

When the silence stretches, Anatoly breaks it. “You know, you could destroy Milos without all this marriage business. There is no need for it.”

I still my blade from tapping against the table. My jaw tightens, but I don’t look at him right away. There are things he doesn’t know, things I’m not keen to expose.

“I’m not just after Milos,” I say finally. “He isn’t the only one I want to hurt.”

Anatoly’s eyes narrow slightly, his gaze flicking to the sculpture on the table. For a moment, I think he’ll press the issue, but instead, he lets out a long sigh. “Of course, you’re not.” His tone is resigned. He steps forward and pats me on the back. “Congratulations, groom,” he says dryly.

I glance at him, my lips curling into a humorless smirk. “Fuck off, Anatoly.”

He chuckles. “Don’t look so grim. You’re getting exactly what you want, aren’t you?”

I don’t answer. Instead, my fingers brush over the clay as if Mila’s face will give me the answers I refuse to admit I’m searching for.

Twelve

Burned Bridges

Mila

Iwake up with a start, the memories of last night haunting me. My throat burns, my chest feels hollow, and my eyes are swollen from crying myself into oblivion. I groan, pressing the heels of my hands into my face, but the dull ache behind my eyes doesn’t ease. Sleep didn’t do its job.

The moment I step out of my room, I notice it.

Flowers.

Everywhere.

White and red blooms are draped along the staircase railing, wound around door handles, scattered across every table. It’s like the mansion is choking on a garden. My stomach churns. This isn’t normal.

I move quickly down the stairs, the bad feeling sitting heavy in my gut. When I reach the living room, I find my father sitting on the couch, laughing softly at something Layla says. They’redrinking tea, as if the world hasn’t spun completely off its axis. They never get along, what is happening?

He’s smiling.

Not the tight-lipped smile he gives to guests, or the condescending smirk he flashes when he’s pretending to be amused. No, this is different—he looks genuinely happy, something I haven’t seen in years.

“Good morning,” I mumble, barely audible, and head toward the kitchen before anyone can drag me into whatever is happening. I grab an apple from the counter.

“No breakfast, Ana?” I ask one of the younger maids, and she looks up from where she’s arranging a bouquet.

“Br, br, br,”she says quickly in Serbian, the universal no. There’s a bright smile on her face, though, and her voice is practically bouncing as she adds, “Everyone is busy preparing for the celebration!”

“Celebration?” I question, confusion pulling my brows together.

“Yeah!” she chirps, oblivious to the dread blooming in my chest. She picks up a bucket of flowers and grins at me, like this is the best day of her life. “Go to Mr. Jovanovich! He’ll tell you the good news.”

I watch her scurry off, humming a cheery tune as she splashes more color across the house. My apple sits forgotten on the counter.

Good news?

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