Page 65 of Carved in Ruin

“No, no, of course, I’ll get her eventually,” he continues with twisted amusement. “No way he’s going to keep her locked down forever. The honeymoon phase will wear off. And when it does, maybe he’ll even send her back to me himself.”

“She’ll end up just like her mother. Buried in the backyard.” His laughter is maniacal, the kind that echoes in nightmares. “I thought she was different, thought she deserved better. But no, she’ll get the same—a rough fuck, and a bullet straight to the head.”

I don’t know how long I stand there, rooted to the spot, my hands cold and shaking. But when I move, something in me shifts. Whatever fear I had left is gone, replaced by a searing, unrelenting rage.

I run, my feet pounding against the stone path leading to the backyard. My chest feels like it’s about to explode, but I keep moving, my mind screaming louder than my body’s protests.

“Mrs. Ivanov!” Arkadi calls out, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.

The fountain comes into view, the one I spent all my time at. The memories come rushing in—my mother’s laugh, her hands smoothing my hair as I sat by the water, her soft voice telling me everything would be okay.

I drop to my knees beside the fountain, the dirt cold and damp beneath me. My hands claw at the ground, ripping at theplants and the soil like a woman possessed. Nails break, dirt embeds itself into my skin, but I don’t care. I dig harder, faster, the world narrowing to this one spot.

“Mrs. Ivanov…” Arkadi’s voice is softer now, but it grates against my nerves.

“Shut up!” I scream. “Shut up! Just shut the fuck up!”

I hear him move behind me, but I don’t look back. I can’t. My hands keep clawing at the earth, and then I feel him kneel beside me.

I glance at him, his face unreadable, but his hands already digging into the dirt next to mine. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t question, just starts working.

A lump forms in my throat. He doesn’t even know what I’m doing. But he’s here, helping me anyway.

His hands are bigger, faster, tearing through the earth with brutal efficiency, but it’s me—it’smyhands—that pull something free first. My breath catches as I stare at the skeletal hand in my grip, the bones brittle and fragmented. A ring still clings to one of the fingers. Her wedding ring.

I scream.

It’s guttural, feral, tearing out of me with such force that my throat feels like it’s ripping apart. My vision blurs, my body trembling uncontrollably.

Arkadi’s face darkens, his jaw tightening, but he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t even take the hand from me. Instead, he keeps digging.

And then the rest of her emerges. The skeleton of the woman who gave me life.

But it’s not just her body.

Photographs. Dozens of them, tucked into the dirt like some sick offering. I freeze, staring at the images scattered among the bones. I don’t want to look. Ihaveto look.

My stomach twists violently as I pick one up. It’s me. Young. Vulnerable. Naked. The pictures were all taken without my knowledge. There are ones of me showering, peeing, and getting dressed.

Everything clicks.

My hands tremble as I clutch the photo, bile rising in my throat. She knew. My mother knew. She found out about him—about what he was, what he did. She found the photos. And she didn’t stay silent. She would never stay silent.

That’s why she died. She didn’t run. She didn’t abandon me. She fucking died protecting me.

The scream tears out of me again, raw and animalistic, as the truth crashes over me. I claw at the photos, desperate to hide them, to shove them back into the dirt where no one will ever see them again.

“Don’t look!” I sob, my dirty hands flying to Arkadi’s eyes. “Don’t fucking look! Don’t—”

“Mila,” he says quietly as he pulls my hands away. “I’m not looking, I promise. You shouldn’t either.”

I shake my head violently, trying to block his view again, but he’s already collecting the photos.

“I’ll burn them,” he says, pulling out his lighter. I watch, frozen, as he sets the photos ablaze. The fire devours them, turning the images to ash in seconds.

My hands move on their own, cupping the skeleton’s skull. The bone is cold, so cold.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “I’m so, so sorry.”

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