It’s a punishment.
“You’re disgusted,” he murmurs, dragging the pad of his thumb to the corner of my mouth. My reaction doesn’t seem to bother him. If anything, he relishes in my discomfort, swiping his tongue along his lower lip in satisfaction. “Aren’t you, little tigre? Horrified by what I’ve done. Your boss fed you a lie, didn’t he? That you could stick your little knife through my chest. Kill me. Avenge whatever wrong you think I’ve done against you. But he was wrong.” He laughs and presses down on my lip to expose my clenched teeth. “You couldn’t kill me, even if you wanted to. I’ve been dead for a long damn time. You really want to hurt me? Tell me your name. End this game for good. Kill any hope I may have that you could be…”
His hand falls from my face, but his grip on my wrist doesn’t relent, forcing me to feel where a crudely shaped letter y ends, roughly over his heart.
“You are not Safiya,” he tells me, applying so much pressure my nail is driven into his skin. “Say one little word and prove that to me. That will do the job better than any knife, tigre. Because Safiya? I didn’t kill her with my own two hands—that would have been too easy. No. I had to see the look on her face when I delivered her into the arms of a twisted, sick son of a bitch. I had to watch her cry for me, unable to make a sound. She couldn’t scream even if she wanted.”
He shoves me back so hard I slam against the leather seat cushions. Hunched over, he tears at his hair with both hands, but his expression is anything but anguished. He smiles, teeth bared, eyes flashing with a maniacal gleam.
And for the first time, I feel my heart clench in a way that could be out of fear.
“I knew what would happen to her,” he says, laughing softly more to himself than to me. “I knew. And I told myself it was worth it, tigre. Her pain, her death, her lost innocence would all be worth it. Because if I could do that to her—” He breaks off, his eyes on his hands as he lowers them before him. “I could do anything. I could survive anything, and I have. I’ve survived. But if you are Safiya… Everything I’ve suffered would have been for nothing. So, tell me your name.”
I jump at the growl concealed in those final words. It’s not a command, but a plea. A poor man begging to be put out of his misery.
When I don’t grant his wish, his nostrils flare, cheeks flushing red. “What is your name—”
The mechanical whir of the partition lowering renders him silent, and the driver calls from the front seat. “Sir?”
“What is it?”
“We’ve arrived.”
Dread forms a rock, sinking to the pit of my stomach. Arrived. That word has more connotations to it than I think the poor driver is aware of. Even before I sneak a glimpse from the window, I know he made good on his threat.
To bring me here. The place that had been my haven long before Mischa’s manor. The place where my life was ripped apart by the very man seated across from me.
“Welcome home, imposter Safiya,” he tells me, wrenching open the door to the back seat, ushering in a burst of cold air, damp with a drizzle of rain. “Get out.”
I can’t move. My gaze is riveted on the looming manor house. It’s been over seven years since I saw it last, but in so many ways, it seems like I’ve never left. The darkness obscures any signs of age that might mar the stone structure, but the faint moonlight enhances its old beauty to a painful degree. The lawns have since become overgrown and wild, though the same curved stone path leads to the main entrance—a large double door, painted red, nearly swallowed by a swath of creeping vines.
“Come,” Donatello commands, exiting the car first. Before I can react, his hand lashes out, snagging my wrist, dragging me after him.
I dig my heels in, twisting to free myself from his grasp—but he’s persistent, snatching me by my waist and lifting me off my feet entirely.
“Don’t tell me you aren’t enjoying your homecoming,” he snarls, ruthlessly mounting the front entrance to the house.
Memories come in a flood, drowning me in remnants of the past. Living here with him. My old room, adorned with pretty pink wallpaper. The study where he used to work. The spacious backyard and the fountain I used to play in. The hallways where Vin and I would waste hours over games of hide and seek.
My eyes burn, and no amount of blinking can keep the tears at bay. They descend in a torrent, and I lash out at the only target within reach. Him. I kick wildly, hoping to strike his chest. My fists hammer at his back before I try clawing at his forearms instead.
Unperturbed, he adjusts his grip on me to kick open the front door, stepping inside.
And in a mocking twist of fate, I’m home again, in the arms of the man who threw me away. His laugh forms a haunting bridge to the past as he sets me down and drags me further inside.
It’s dark, and a cloying layer of dust drifts on the air, making me cough. Despite the thick shadows, it’s obvious that some level of care has gone into maintaining the property. Donatello grapples at the wall, and scattered lights come to life, bathing everything in an orange glow.
I go numb, struck by agonizing recognition.
The hallway—though less furnished—looks the same. Still, emerald green, accenting the wooden staircase leading to the upper level. I can make out the doorway to his study from here, bathed in the glow of moonlight.
And whatever my expression reveals makes Donatello release me as if stung. Swallowing hard, he backs away, blinking rapidly. Anguish washes over his face for a heartbeat before something cold hardens his expression, darkening his eyes and tightening the line of his mouth.
He grabs my arm again, this time brutally enough to hurt. Whirling on his heel, he tears toward the study almost too quickly for me to follow. I trip in his wake, forced to brace my free hand against the wall for balance. On my way through the doorway, a series of marks catch at my fingertips. Tiny little cuts etched into the wood.
I don’t have to look to imagine the small handwriting accompanying each one. Names. Don. Olivia. Vinny. Safy.
“Look at me.” Wrenching me forward, Donatello shoves me into a leather chair positioned before a massive oak desk. His desk, coated in a layer of dust. His bookshelves remain, as do the paintings he’d had hanging even back then.
One, in particular, greets me now, looming on the wall behind him. The self-portrait of a little girl, painstakingly crafted with a mixture of finger paints and crayons. I’d insisted on him putting it right there.
So he would never be alone.
I would always be with him.
“Look at me, little tigre.” He crouches before me, bracing his hands on either armrest, trapping me in place. “You are not her.” He scoffs at the prospect even as his trembling fingers find the ball of my chin. He touches me. Snatches his hand away. Grips me tightly, shoving my head back against the leather.
His eyes rake over me mercilessly. From my scalp, down to my heaving chest. His jaw twitches, his breathing audibly unsteady. Heavy. Rasping.
“You can’t be her…” To prove it, he grinds his thumb down the length of my cheek as if the bone structure alone is evidence enough. A dangerous possibility creeps into my thoughts. Did he ever stop to picture how his Safiya might look seven years after his betrayal? Did he imagine some weak, broken, mournful creature?