Page 159 of Sire
She steps back. “Like how you kept my father safe?” Her chin trembles. “How you had him killed, and he didnothingto you.”
“Exactly,” I seethe. “Viktor didnothingwhile a woman and her children were beaten. Daily. Then, your father stood by and soldyourbody to the Devil, too. I’m sorry for your loss, Katya, but Viktor threatened Lev. To myface. He was willing to kill his grandson for power.”
A tear rolls down her cheek. “You lie.”
I step to her face again, staring her down. “Look your king in the eye and tell me if I’m lying.”
She does, and … she can’t.
We all have a choice: will your pain make you cruel or kind?
“Look me in the eye, my king,” evil fills her glare, “and tell me if you will wake up tomorrow.”
Katya chose cruelty.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
WREN
“You’re pretty,so I’m giving you wings like an angel,” the little girl proclaims, scribbling on my left cheek.
Another silently doodles on my right. I don’t care if the markers they’re using aren’t waterproof.
“¿Qué estás haciendo?” I tickle the girl on my right.
She giggles. “Mariposas.”
“Gracias. Te amo, mariposas.”
My Spanish isn’t perfect, but Sire was teaching me some.
Moments like this are bittersweet. Like me, the girl loves butterflies. Like him, I love these kids. Like these kids, I wonder where he is, too.
Ms. Davis calls out in Spanish, and the kids rush to the playroom door, excited when their parents pick them up. After we straighten the room and clean the tables, she asks, “So, how is our intrepid missionary?”
Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
I swallow.
“He’s loving the work, of course.” The lies roll too easily off my tongue. “But he doesn’t love the freezing temps over there.”
“I bet not,” she laughs, handing me a baby wipe for my face.
“Oh, I don’t mind the doodles.”They make me think of him.I give her a quick hug. “See ya tomorrow.”
Quickly, I grab my handbag and leave. Any day, I fear Ms. Davis, or someone will see right through me.
Pain hides behind a thin mask. It can crumble, like me, at any second.
Smearing away tears, I go to Sire’s office, log on, and check his emails. Dutifully, I reply to what I can and forward the rest to the staff and clergy.
I don’t let myself sniff the hoodie he left on his chair. His masculine aroma hurts too much. I want to smellhim, his warm skin, not a cold, cotton hoodie.
In the chapel an hour later, I’m not alone. A few others silently pray. I find little comfort in the desperation that brings us here.
Nodding at them, I work my way to the front pew. To my spot in front of Sire’s pulpit. Kneeling, I let my gaze fall on the sacred space in front of the altar.
The place where I became Sire’s.
