Page 37 of Sinful Embers

I stare at the words, my entire body vibrating with horror. My stomach churns violently.

Vivienne was going to marry me off to Radomir.

I was fucking four years old, and she had already mapped out my life. Who I’d marry—without one fucking thought or care about me. Then another thought hits me like a sledge hammer to the brain.

My mind spins, nausea gripping me hard.Did Uncle Mark know? Did my father?

Nikolas… my father… had one of Vivienne’s journals. My head tilts as I look at the three books laid out in front of me. He’d said the book would help me remember—that I had to remember because my life was in danger. Something nags at the back of my mind.

Suddenly I hear my father’s voice:“I bought you each four songbooks. Look, they have leather covers, gold writing, and I had each of your initials put on the bottom right so you wouldn’t muddle them up.”

“What the fuck am I going to with books?”Vivienne had fumed.

“You both like to write music. Maybe it will help you bond with Leigh. For fuck’s sake, Vivienne, she’s your daughter too.”

“She hates me,”Vivienne whined.“You’re never here to see how rude she is.”

“She’s three, for fuck’s sake,”Nikolas had growled. Then his voice dropped, low and threatening.“Put it this way, Vivienne—if you don’t at least try to make an effort with Leigh, then when the divorce comes through, I won’t be able to let you see her. At least not without a chaperone.”

“Divorce?”Vivienne spluttered.“Are you serious about that?”

“I told you I was,”Nikolas said flatly.“The papers will be ready by the end of the month. You know we’ve never worked. You’ll be set up for life—comfortable. And as soon as I’m confident you can get along with Leigh, we’ll set up visiting rights.”

Vivienne and Nikolas were getting a divorce—the year we moved. The year Popop Dante died.

I clutch the edge of the table, trying to steady my breathing. But it’s too late. The memories are coming too fast, crashing over me like a tidal wave.

Sometimes, Leigh, the mind protects us from ourselves as well, not just from pain. The reason you don’t want to remember isn’t just because of the trauma—it’s because you’re afraid of something.

The words of one of my old therapists echo through my head, but the voice that follows makes my heart slam against my ribs.

This is my fault. I hurt them. This happened because of me. It was me—I killed them. I killed them because I’m just like her. I don’t want to be like her!

The voice is young. My voice.

It’s not laughing. Not sassy. Not confident.

It’s hysterical. It’s afraid.

“Fuck,” I whisper hoarsely. “I didn’t want to remember because I didn’t want to be like Vivienne.”

My throat constricts, making it harder to breathe. My vision swims.

I shut my memories away. I shut my memories away.

My chair scrapes against the stone floor as I push back abruptly. Panic wells in my chest, clawing up my throat. My breathing is too fast. Too shallow.

Then—

A blast.

The impact rattles through me. The force vibrates up my arms, through my fingers.

I look down.

Blood.

My hands are covered in blood.

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