Page 116 of Beautiful Cruelty

His lips press against my damp hair, but even that gesture feels automatic, like he's following a script of what he should do rather than acting on genuine impulse.

The man who'd made me feel alive with just a touch now feels as numb as I do.

We sit in silence, his arms around me, my head on his chest. Two broken people holding each other together while falling apart inside.

34

VADIM

I sitin the chair outside of the bedroom suite after Lacey has finally fallen asleep, thumbing through the bible, but the names and numbers blur together even as I commit them to memory.

My hands refuse to stay still.

The weight of Irina's death presses against my chest like a stone.

"We'll be landing in thirty minutes, Vadim Petrovich." Demyon's voice cuts through my thoughts. "I've arranged for the discrete transport of Irina's body."

I close the bible and press my palms against my eyes. Irina's final moments replay in my mind—her triumphant smile, the bloody flower blossoming on her chest from that single shot. The sound of Lacey's scream.

"She deserved better than this." My voice comes out hoarse. "After everything she survived..."

"She died protecting what she believed in." Demyon's hand grips my shoulder. "The same way she lived."

My gaze drifts to the cabin where Lacey rests. Her blood-soaked wedding dress is still there, crumpled in the corner. I remember how she trembled in the shower as I washed Irina's blood from her skin. The way she couldn't stop staring at her hands.

"I promised to protect her." The words taste like ash in my mouth. "Instead, I've stained her with blood."

"Vadim—”

"Look at what I've done to her, Demyushka." I gesture toward the cabin. "She was innocent."

I've put blood on Lacey's hands. My entire life, I've tried to fool myself into believing that I'm different from Pyotr. But now?

A familiar self-loathing rises in my throat.

"The only thing you need to do right now," Demyon says quietly. "Is make sure that Irina's death wasn't in vain."

But as I stare at the pages of the leather-bound book in my lap, I wonder if any of this was worth the cost.

If I had any right to drag Lacey into this darkness with me.

The plane begins its descent, and Seattle's lights glitter below us through the ever-present rain like fallen stars. Somewhere in that glittering web is the life Lacey left behind. A life I tore her away from, just like Pyotr tore my mother from hers.

I open the door quietly. Lacey lies curled on her side, still wearing the clothes I helped her change into. Dark circles shadow her eyes, and her chest rises and falls in shallow breaths.

"Zvyozdochka." I touch her shoulder gently. "We've landed."

She jerks awake with a gasp, her eyes wide with fear. My heart clenches as she scrambles back against the seat before recognition floods her face.

"C'mon," I whisper, withdrawing my hand. "It's time to go."

Lacey nods, but her movements are mechanical as she stands. I steady her when she sways, and guide her toward the exit. The air hits us with a blast of cold soft rain under Seattle's telltale clouds.

It's fitting for what we've endured.

Two black SUVs idle on the tarmac. Demyon opens the rear door of the first one while men in dark suits approach the cargo hold where Irina's body rests.

"This way." I try to lead Lacey to our waiting car, but she plants her feet.

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