Page 48 of Depraved Royals

“About the whip?”

“Jesus, Dani.” Kal laughs, pulling my head onto his chest. “About the proposal. He said he wants you to be happy, and if you accept, that’s good enough for him. You and I can move into your place until we get somewhere of our own.”

“So it’s really over?” I mumble. “You’re not my enemy anymore? We’re safe?”

Sleep is overtaking me fast. If he replies, I don’t hear it.

18

Kal

Dani’s place is as sunny and bright as she is. We’ve been here a week, and already it’s beginning to feel like home.

The loft space above the apartment serves as Dani’s studio. She’s there now, working on her paintings.

I need to go and talk to my mother.

I haven’t seen Simeon since the Samhain Ball, and as much as that suits me, it’s not a good sign. Idina and I have exchanged a couple of terse text messages, but she’s gonna realize pretty soon that I’m not at the Pushkin home, ready to cut Fyodor down.

I’m going to marry Danica Pushkin. That makes me the heir to the Pushkin Bratva, legitimately and without force or skulduggery. Surely that will be enough for my mother? Her boy back in the fold, her family reconciled? Iwantto believe it, but I’m putting off the conversation. It’s as though the lies and anger in my past might stain the present like spilled ink, and I want to block it all out.

Pippa bustles in through the front door, carrying a cardboard cup holder.

“Three large lattes,” she says, “and one huge headache. It’s crazy busy out there!”

“Christmas shopping,” I say, taking the coffee cups and setting them on the kitchen counter. “Starts earlier every year.”

“Aw, I love Christmas,” Pippa trills.

I smile. Her posh English accent is fun to listen to.

“What doyoulike to do at Christmas, Kal?” Pippa asks, removing her scarf.

“Never been a big deal for my family.”

December twenty-fifth has always been a significant day, but not because of Christmas.

Every year, Idina became more unpredictable as the holiday drew nearer. Picking fights with Erik, and after he died, picking fights with her kids, me especially. The rest of the time, she coddled and suffocated me with her attention, but on that particular holiday morning, she would get up early so she’d be good and drunk by the time I got out of bed. Then she ordered me to sit on the floor, and she would recline in her chair and stare at me, her eyes black as coal.

“Bastard,” she would mutter. “You’re disgusting. Black-hearted. Foul. Depraved.”

I would sit on the floor and try not to listen. There would be no toys, just a stream of cruel words that I didn’t understand.

One year, she went off crazier than ever.

“On Christmas morning when I was thirteen, my mother took my stepfather’s gun. She sat in the car with the doors locked, the pistol in her mouth, as we kids cried and banged on the windows, begging her to stop.”

“Holy shit.” Pippa is frozen to the spot, hanging on my every word.

I didn’t realize I was saying it aloud.

“I’m such a fuck-up,” I say, leaning against the counter and rubbing my face with my palm. “I’m trying hard to pull away from it, but things are coming back to me all the time. Things I haven’t thought about in years.”

“You need to force yourself to let the light in, Kal. Even if it’s blinding at first, you’ll adjust.” Pippa hands me two coffee cups. “Go see Dani. Talk to her.”

I take the drinks and climb the stairs into the loft.

Dani’s canvas is six feet square, propped on a stand. She has her back to me, her tongue at the corner of her mouth as she moves her brush through the paint.

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