“Do you want to know why I did it?” I tell her, a confession admissible only now. Here in Havienna. “Do you?” I murmur against her ear. But she won’t answer even in this form. “Because you would hurt. Losing you would hurt so bad, and that pain would be enough, Safy. Enough to keep me going. Make me fight and kill those bastards where they stood. I would have crumbled without that pain.”
I stroke her delicate jaw and search those eyes for any hint of understanding. More tears fall silently, each one more disarming than the last.
“I loved you so much,” I confess, my throat tight. “So much. You were my little principessa. I would have done anything in the world for you. Anything… But I needed to hate you, Safy. Because if I could lose you, I could survive anything.”
But I was wrong. I didn’t survive what I did to her. All this time, I haven’t been living, just crawling through time, barely coherent enough to witness it passing.
And now with Vin gone…
“I’ll join you soon, the real you.” The little girl who doesn’t belong to Mischa Stepanov. “I’m sorry, Safy. I’m so sorry.”
But, as always, she doesn’t do a damn thing other than watch me, tears streaming from those beautiful eyes. I swipe at them, again startled by how real they feel. How wet.
“It’s the alcohol,” I murmur to myself, laughing.
But curiosity is a twisted fucking thing. I press against her and hiss through my teeth. She feels real, so small that even touching her like this feels dangerous. Like I might break her. Crush her.
And she would deserve it.
“You did it, Safy,” I say. My fingers twitch for that slender neck, but I stop myself, only to laugh. Even against a shadow of her, I hold back, cringing in guilt.
No more. Gritting my teeth, I encircle that column in both hands, forcing her to meet my gaze. Slowly, I squeeze, watching those eyes go bug wide. Her hands fly to mine, clawing weakly, but she doesn’t fight like the real girl would.
She just watches me, sobbing silently, and I realize just what emotion she’s conveying. No hatred.
Just pity.
“You took it all away, didn’t you, Safy?”
I let her go and return to the desk. Grabbing the bottle of lighter fluid, I wrench off the cap and nearly choke at the goddamn smell. I fumble for the matches in my other hand. When I turn around, she’s still watching, her eyes even wider, and God damn me for the observation that crosses my mind—horror on her is so lovely. I hate myself for appreciating that. How perfectly my brain can represent this grown figment of her when I’ve spent years banishing her memory.
“Here’s to you, Safy—” I lift the bottle in a mock salute. Then I upturn it over my head. The liquid clings to me, dribbling over my nostrils and down my lips. I smell nothing anymore. Feel nothing. Laughing, I inspect the book of matches and hunt for the best one, and I find it; a defective strip smaller than the rest.
It will be a bitch to light, and I deserve the struggle. I rip it from the packet and prepare to strike it.
The force that slams into me is so slight I barely notice it. Regardless, the matchbook slips from my grasp, tugged free by slender fingers that shouldn’t have the strength to do so. I take them back, but that insistent touch persists.
I’m insane. Laughter rips from me so violently I clutch my stomach. After all these years, I’ve finally lost it. But of all things for my brain to conjure, this one is beyond belief even for a desperate man—Safy, stopping me from ending my miserable life.
She claws at the matches, wrenching them away. But it’s even easier to snatch them back. Her warmth comes as a greater shock this time, as does the solidness of her limbs. Her touch. Those eyes.
“If you want to watch, just watch,” I growl, readjusting my grip on the match. “Enjoy the show—”
She lunges at me; this time, her weight knocks me back against the desk. Tiny nails gouge at my forearm as she tries to steal the matches again. I lash out with the back of my hand, and she goes flying.
But she doesn’t vanish. Curled on her side, she stares up at me, blood dribbling down her chin. Real, red blood…
I clutch my skull and blink just to clear my vision. This is too damn much. Too surreal. But when I return to that spot on the floor, she’s still there.
“Fine.” I crouch and snatch the bottle of fluid, crossing to her. I overturn it, dousing her in what little liquid is left. She gapes in shock, her damp hair clinging to her slender shoulders.
“We both can die if that’s how you want it.” I rip a new match free and aim the tip against the back of the matchbook, but I never move to strike it.
She grabs at my knee, straining the fabric of my pants. I can feel her nails. Her trembling. Fuck, I can feel the pulse surging beneath her skin.
“Damn you...” I sink to my knees, cradling my head in my hands. “What the fuck do you want from me? Tell me!”
She’s silent, of course.
So goddamn silent.
“You want me to suffer, is that it? I can’t even die. You want me to stay here and suffer for what I did to you.”
Softness flutters against my cheek. It’s not real, but I react to it anyway, opening my eyes to find an endless pair staring back. I reach out, brushing my fingers along that beautiful cheek, down to her throat. I encircle my fingers around it, gripping tight, so hard her eyes bulge.
“Is this what you want?” I ask her.
She bats at me, but I shove her down, pinning the specter to the floor. With both hands, I squeeze so hard… I could break her neck if she were real.
“If I kill you, Safy, will you finally go away?”
Her limbs jerk beneath me, her pink cheeks losing their color, her lips parting wordlessly. But even now, railing against the shadows, I can’t hurt her. My hands slip from her skin, and I sink against her, even more alarmed by how real she feels. Air wheezes in and out of her throat, her body limp, eyes still staring.
I seek out refuge against her shoulder, pulling her against me so that she can’t turn away. My sick brain makes her react to me how she never would in reality. Her fingers fist through my hair, her breathing heavy.
And even though she’s a phantom, her nearness has an effect on me it shouldn’t—a calmness deeper than what a joke from Vin could instill.
A grotesque amalgam of peace.
Horrible, mind-numbing peace.
26
Willow
I’m in a dream. A nightmare. In it, I leave the safe protection of my family home and venture into a world of darkness.
Draped beneath the shadows, I walk right into the lair of a monster—a tormented beast who seems determined to destroy me.
But somehow, I wind up lying in his arms, tasting blood on my tongue, suffering his scent in my lungs, unable to move. I’d consoled myself with the lie that I was here to gloat over him. To relish in my triumph and watch him suffer as I once suffered.
But as his breath fans my throat, the tears falling from my eyes won’t cease. The silent sobs wracking my chest only grow in intensity, each one threatening to launch my heart from my ribcage.
But the physical pain is a welcome distraction from the agony clawing through my mind, scrambling any coherent thought. Horrified, I can only lie here and bear the onslaught.