Page 157 of 10 Days to Ruin

“Of course it fucking matters, you idiot!” Zoya slaps down the needle and jabs a finger in my face. “You come here—bleeding, shaking, smelling of her perfume—and pretend it doesn’t matter? You think you are so tough, Aleksandr Ozerov. But I held you when you werethis big.” Her hands span a loaf of bread’s length. “When Yakov…”

“Don’t.”

“… would put cigarettes out on your arm for crying. I cleanedthiswound, too, don’t forget.” Her finger jabs the scar across my throat. “I?—”

The bottle shatters when I hurl it against the steel walk-in. Vodka dribbles down dented steel. “I saiddon’t.”

Zoya couldn’t be less intimidated. “Ach, well, I’ve never been a good listener.”

“Being there for parts of it doesn’t make you an expert on what I’ve survived. You knownothing.” I jump up and advance on her. The motion pulls free a few of her looser stitches, causing hot blood to drip down my arm.

She plants her fists on her hips and scowls at me. “I know this: When Yakov died, you came here. Do you remember? You sat in that exact seat. And do you know what you said that night,malchik?”

Our reflections hover in the reflective surface—her a smoking crater of a woman, me a bloodied shadow of a man.

“I said I’d piss on his grave.”

“No.” Zoya shakes her head. “You said, ‘Now, she’s safe.’”

I turn and sink back onto the wobbly stool. My head is throbbing in time with my shoulder now. Both hurt like hell. “Blyat’,”I spit at myself. “Ssyklo.Fuckingssyklo.”

Now, Zoya is the one who advances on me. “You, Sashenka, are a man who protects what he loves. Even if it means spilling your own blood to make it happen. So ask yourself: does this feel like it ‘doesn’t matter’ to you?” She runs a finger through my pooled blood and holds it in front of my eyes. “This looks like blood to me,malchik.Do you regret spilling it for her?”

I press my forehead to the prep table surface and close my eyes.Thump. Thump.Pain, everywhere. “She hates me for what I hid, Zoya.”

“So? Hate is just love that’s still breathing.” She cups the back of my head and sighs mournfully, the air whistling out of her in a long, sad stream.

“Nothing’s left breathing, Zoya. Leander’s dead. The alliance is dead. It’s all fucking dead.”

“Nyet, child. Nothing is truly dead until you give up on it. Do you think yourmamochkais dead? Or is she here?” When I look up, I see Zoya spreading her arms wide to encompass the whole kitchen, the restaurant. “She’s right here with us. In me. In you. And this Ariel… What you have with her is not dead unless you choose to let it die. Go to her. Beg. Grovel.Live.”

A guttural noise escapes me—part growl, part sob. “She’ll shoot me on sight.”

Zoya’s smile curves like her cleaver. “So be ready to duck.”

54

ARIEL

A rock through the window breaks it easily.

I climb through to get out of sight, off the street. But once I’m inside, I pause for a moment and look back.

The jagged shards of glass that didn’t fall stick out of the opening like teeth. At my feet, the rest of them are a thousand tiny mirrors. In each one of them is an Ariel, and each of those Ariels is the same.

A fool.

An idiot.

A stupid, deluded dreamer in a stupid red dress who thought she could outrun her bloodline.

I tear my gaze away and look around me. It’s strange to see the library at night. It was always bright and clean by day and magical by dusk. Now, though, the shadows are long and thick. Shelves lurk, huge, seeming almost to curve in over my head.

A cold breeze blows through the wrecked window. I shiver, wrap my arms around myself, and hurry in.

Pretty funny that I should end up here, right? This is where all stories come to die. When they’re over, they get jailed in here and here they stay until the end of time.

My story is over. That fairy tale, that big, grand romance that Mama told me I deserved—it’s about to be sealed up in a leatherbound coffin. I’ve got a great line to finish it off, whenever I get around to filling up those blank pages Sasha gave me:

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