Page 19 of Broomsticks and Bloodstains
But what if the thread was already stitched and woven through me? What if cutting her loose meant tearing myself open too?
Frustrated, I rubbed a hand over my face, exhaling slowly. I’d been up too many nights thinking about her—her laugh, the stubborn tilt of her chin, the fire that blazed in her when she should’ve been begging. No one had ever looked me in the eye like she had.
And now she’d seen blood. Blood of my making. There was no turning back.
By the time dawn edged into the sky, I was still awake, pacing my balcony facing the riverfront—a cigarette burning low between my fingers.
My phone buzzed. Konstantin. I’d messaged him when Sofia had been marching her cute ass toward danger. He’d been blowing up my phone since. Truth be told, I was surprised he hadn’t shown up banging on my door.
“You’re not answering my questions,” he said flatly. “That worries me.”
“I handled it,” I told him.
“You handled it,” he repeated, voice sharp. “By killing an Armenian in the middle of a crowded festival? By dragging that girl deeper into this mess?”
“She’s not a problem.” The words came out too fast. Too defensive.
“Christ, Maksim. She is the problem. Do you think Boris will let this slide if he finds out you’ve lost your edge over some goddamn bartender?”
I stared out over the water, jaw locked. “She’s mine. That’s all you need to know.”
There was silence on the other end. Then, a long, low sigh. “Obsession gets men killed, brother. Don’t let her be the bullet you put in your own skull.”
The line went dead.
With a curse in Russian, I stubbed the cigarette on the railing, watching the ember die.
He was wrong. Maybe it had started as an obsession, but it wasn’t anymore. It was clarity.
For the first time in years, I knew exactly what I wanted. And I wasn’t going to let anyone—Konstantin, Boris, or the Armenians—take her away from me.
Not while I was still breathing.
Chapter 12
Sofia
I woke to the sound of silence.
For a few blissful seconds, I thought maybe it had all been a nightmare—the blood, the alley, the knife pressed to my throat. But then I sat up, and the smell hit me. Gun oil. Steel. Him.
Blinking a few times, I realized the ceiling didn’t have the familiar water stain on it. A slight sound had me turning my head.
Maksim was sitting in the chair across from his bed, shirtless, his scarred chest catching the stream of morning light through the floor-to-ceiling windows. His eyes were on me—always on me.
The memory came crashing back. His knife flashing in the dark. The Armenian’s body crumpling to the ground. My own scream muffled against his hand as he told me I was safe.
I pulled the blanket tighter around myself. It hadn’t been a dream. “You really did kill him.” My voice cracked.
“Yes.” No hesitation, no apology. Just fact. “As I told you last night.”
I chewed on my lip as bits and pieces of last night sifted through my mind. Everything was discombobulated. I couldn’t remember what was real and what I might’ve thought versus what was actually said.
“We talked about it last night?”
“Briefly. You were not yourself, so it’s understandable that things may be fuzzy for you. You should know that if word spreads, it will start an all-out war. Armenians against Russians. Blood in the streets.”
I swallowed hard, bile burning my throat. “Because of me.”
