Page 77 of The Serpent's Bride
“Language.” Volencia scoffed. “But the sentiment is true. You’re lying.”
“I’m not.” Raziel sat back. “While I was dealing with his men, Luciento dragged her into a room intending to abduct her and escape. She had a choice. Go with him or use the knife I gave her to kill him. I found him dead in a corner, bleeding out. One stab up from the jaw into the throat and the skull.” He put a finger against his neck where the blade would have entered Luciento’s body. “The knife was on the floor nearby. Luciento’s hands were clean. Right, Ivan?”
“He’s right,” Ivan confirmed from where he stood by the wall. “Hank and I found him right where Raziel said.”
“When was the last timeIused my own hands to kill someone?” Raziel couldn’t keep the grin off his face as he sipped his wine. “I would have made one of his men do it. And the person who did it was shorter than Luciento, and I am not.”
Raziel was staring at his little murderer, who was dutifully cutting up her steak. It was cooked rare, nearly raw in themiddle. She didn’t seem to mind in the slightest. His eldest brother shook his head. “Did you really kill him?” He paused. “I don’t mean to insult you, but…”
“I know this family is dangerous,” she said. “And I could hear what you were talking about when I walked in here.” She put her knife down on the table. “And I knew that if I wanted to survive, I had to prove my worth to all of you.” She stabbed a piece of her steak with her fork. “Killing a person isn’t so different than killing a cow, in the end.” Her green eyes met Mael’s gold ones. “Excepthedidn’t scream when I stabbed him.” She ate the piece of meat.
Silence stretched over the room. Even from his mother.
Damn it all to the void—she was starting to make his lifecomplicated.
Because Raziel wondered if this was what love felt like.
TWENTY-TWO
Dinner had been spent mostly in silence after Nadi’s conversation-ending comment about murdering Luciento.
Which was one she was exceedingly proud of.
She wished she kept a journal, if only because she really rather wanted to write that one down to keep for later. But a chronicle of her life seemed like an exceedingly piss-poor idea, as it’d wind up being just a collection of confessions. And it would definitely wind up getting her killed.
After being excused from dinner early, which she was more than fine with, she headed back to the bedroom.Hisbedroom. She would never think of it as “theirs” or “hers.” Either she wouldn’t live that long, or he wouldn’t. One of the two.
Her nerves were on edge, and she didn’t understand why. She felt like she was going to scream. Or shatter something. Or both.
Normally, what she’d do to calm down would be to draw a hot bath, turn off all the lights, and sit in the hot water in as close to total darkness as she could and down a bottle of wine.
But she was currentlyMonica.Not Nadi.
And whileNadicould see in almost total darkness—Monica couldn’t.
Pressing her hands over her eyes, she let out a long, ragged sigh. Maybe that was what was driving her up the wall. She was a good liar. She’d had to learn to be over the years. But she only had to be an actress in short bursts—a day or two at most, neverweeksat a time. She never had to keep it up incessantly like this.
Even now, she couldn’t justbe.She couldn’t justrelax.She had toliterallykeep up appearances. Flipping on the light on the bedside table, she also lit a candle in the bathroom, so Raziel wouldn’t be suspicious if he came in and found her sitting in total darkness.
Consoling herself with a bottle of wine that she set down on the edge of the tub along with a glass, she climbed into the hot water and tried her best to enjoy it for what it was.
Stretching out, she sighed as she leaned her head back against the edge of the porcelain. It was nice to live in an expensive home, she had to give Raziel that much credit. The tub was big enough that she didn’t have to bend her knees to sink into the water and it had lovely little shelves on both sides to store things like her wine. And soap. But most importantly, the wine.
This would be perfect to almost anyone else.
And in normal circumstances, it’d be perfect to her.
Then why was she suddenly crying?
Shehatedcrying.
“Fuck.” Wiping angrily at her face, she stared up at the ceiling above the tub. They weren’t tears of grief or sadness. She didn’tthinkthey were, anyway. They were tears of frustration. Or maybe stress.
Her emotions were one big angry tangled mess, however. All swarming around each other like bees in a hive that someone had kicked. So honestly, she had no ideawhatshe was feeling or why.
But it didn’t matter. The emotions were real, and there was no stopping them now. At least she wasn’t weeping. She couldn’t stand weeping. Crying was obnoxious enough—getting congested and snotty because of it was just adding insult to injury.
Shutting her eyes, she let out a long breath and tried to let it simply run its course.
