Page 185 of Silenced

“Maybe I don’t want to be your wife,” I counter. “Especially without being asked.”

His smile is somber, loaded with the remnants of the past forty-eight hours. Then, as casually as telling me the date, he takes my breath away and forever steals my heart by murmuring in my ear, that broken voice of his sending shockwaves down my spine:

“Would you settle for being my everything?”

47

NIKOLAI

The Kill - Thirty Seconds To Mars

* * *

I’m nottwenty-two anymore and my body declares that with every step we take toward the alligator enclosure.

Cassiopeia placed my arm over her shoulder—whether that’s for comfort or for me to lean on her, I’m not sure yet. Still, I appreciate the support even if I don’t put any weight on her.

Her soft curves against my hard lines are more affection than I’ve ever had, and I can only be grateful that she’s here. That she’s mine. That she said she’ll stand by my side forever.

Because a lifetime isn’t enough.

Still, the pain clamoring its way through my body comes almost as a relief because I prefer the physical pain to the emotional agony that’s coming.

Grigoriy says hope isn’t lost, but I translate that as every breath Dmitri takes is borrowed.

Grigoriy doesn’t want to anger me.

Which means he’s downplaying Dmitri’s situation.

She’s right—we could have waited. Should have. But I’ve never been good at saying goodbye.

Especially not to Dmitri.

Never to him.

How the fuck am I supposed to be Pakhan without him?

He’s my Sovietnik, but he’s so much more.

How the fuck am I supposed to beNikolaiwithout Dmitri when he helped turn me into the man standing here today?

How am I supposed to be Nikolai if I’m a father without his son?

I imagined returning to the US and celebrating Fyodor’s death by drinking vodka, eating blinis and caviar, and watching him sing karaoke songs out of tune inNav’sbar while wearing that fucking signet ring I brought for him, rejoicing in the fact that old bastard no longer pollutes the Earth.

I never imaginedthis.

Retaliation and revenge—they’re watchwords of a mobster’s life. Now, they’re not just biting me in the ass, they’re tearing at my fucking soul.

With grief a heavy burden on my shoulders, one that makes each step harder to take, we walk into the backrooms of the enclosure.

The alligators pretty much roam around the swamps because I don’t believe in caging wild animals. They come here for regular feeds when they’re feeling too lazy to hunt and because one of my favorites, Zub, before she died in a hunting accident, came here to birth another generation.

For whatever reason, that made this place a haven for her hatchlings who choose to make this their home too.

Zub died and in memorial, I used her skin for the shoulder holster housing the knife that killed the man who hunted her.

Full circle.

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