Page 52 of Vicious Hearts

“I guess not when you put it that way.”

Roxy puts her hand on my cheek. It’s as though my imagination has swollen and burst out of my skull, so the physical touch is a shock, and I flinch.

“How did you end up in the Bratva?”

“When I turned sixteen, the hospital trialed a half-assed out-patient scheme, so I got put on a community probation program. I absconded immediately and went to the Gurin Bratva, looking for work. My father had some vague connections with them at one time, and Pavel Gurin took a shine to me because I was a cheeky little shit. I never saw my parents again.”

We fall silent for a while. I run my hand over Roxy’s arm, the nap of her sweater comforting me. The acid can’t have been that concentrated—already the room is settling, the furniture no longer crawling up the walls.

“Farraday is incarcerated for a horrible crime he didn’t commit,” Roxy says, “but like him, you can take comfort from knowing you didn’t kill an innocent man. Whatever you think you are, you held back in that moment and even tried to defend your father. You can hold on to that.”

I squeeze my eyes closed.

Don’t go there. My brain is fucked up and this is not the time to tell her the whole truth.

“Ben?” Roxy’s voice is quiet.

“Yes?”

“What doescharodeykamean?”

“It means ‘sorceress.’ It’s the pet name I gave you when you bewitched me.” I turn my neck so I can kiss her forehead. “I understand now, Rox. Iseeyou. You already know what it means to be with me. I’m a mess, and we both know it.” I put my fingertip under her chin, tilting her head back so I can kiss her. “But there’s nothing and no one on Earth I’d ever put above you. If God Himself tried to harm you, I’d fucking fight Him and go to hell for it.”

* * *

Roxy

I’m in bed, Ben sleeping hard beside me, but I can’t relax. My thoughts are tangled together, and unpicking them is like trying to unravel razor wire.

Graham is an asshole, but it’s difficult to imagine him as a serial child-killer. When his son went missing, he was heartbroken and appeared on the news, appealing to the public for help. When the body was found, he retreated into himself, and his wife left not long after that.

I saw his ugly side, but I always thought the trauma of his son’s murder made him bitter and angry, and it wasn’t difficult to empathize.

Empathy. It’s seen as a skill, a way to connect with others and share the burden of experience. But it can be weaponized and made toxic. I over-identify with people’s feelings and tend to cut them too much slack, excusing their shitty behavior. Then, when they hurt me, I blame myself.

When my family fell apart, I thought it was my fault.

My father told me my mama died because she tried to keep the family together for my sake. Shame I was such a fat, pointless loser. Mama wasted her life on me, and what good was I?

I hear Graham’s voice, and my father’s too, spitting the same cruel words at me.

Fat. Idiot. Naive. Slut. Whore. Needy. Psycho. Fuck-up. Damaged.

And I hear Ben.

He degrades meandpraises me. I crave it.

I need a decent therapist, not a super-possessive older man who fucks me ragged and inflames what seem to be some deep-seated daddy issues.

I close my eyes, trying to convince myself to sleep, but the deep throb inside me takes me back to what happened in the car.

Don’t think about that now.

I get out of bed and pour a glass of water before picking up the sherpa throw from the couch. It’s warm around my shoulders, and I open the balcony door a few inches to feel the cool breeze on my face.

Think about what you know.

The Dollmaker wants Farraday alive but unable to coordinate an appeal. Drugging him in the hospital was a clever idea. Still, it was risky, as his apparent psychosis made him unpredictable. Anyone could have asked why he wasn’t getting better or taken an interest in his wellbeing. It just happened to beme.

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