The interior is a combination of modern and rustic. I end up in a sitting room at the back of the cabin with huge paned windows that overlook the mountain vista. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves flank the view on either side.
I approach the window and admire the view. The sun is rising over the mountains in the east and drenching them in pure golden light. It’s the first time I’ve had the time or energy to really take it all in. I’ve been a little preoccupied grappling with an identity crisis, the reappearance of the mother who gave me up as a newborn, nearly miscarrying my son, and then fending off—well, failing at fending off, to be more accurate—the man who swore to track me to the ends of the earth. Gazing at the scenery hasn’t been high on my priority list.
“Nice, isn’t it?”
I whirl around and find Ariel sitting in one of the armchairs by the window. The furniture is so deep and cozy that she is almost hidden from view. I stare at her, trying to decide how I should feel. What I should say.
“I like to read in here,” she says by way of explanation, snapping a book shut.
I glance at the title. Anna Karenina.
“Have you read it?” she asks.
“No.”
“It’s a classic.”
“I’m aware.” It’s hard not to be short with her. It’s all I’ve known.
“Anyway,” she says, putting the book on the table beside the armchair. “I was just on my way out—”
“Leo told me everything,” I say quickly.
She leans back into the armchair and nods slowly, like she’d always known this day was coming. “Did he now?”
I take a deep breath and sit down in the chair opposite hers. I look at her, and I can’t make heads or tails of what is her mask and what is her.
“Do you still hate me?” she asks.
“A little.”
She laughs. “I don’t blame you. I bet you still have a few souvenirs of our time together.”
“You don’t sound particularly remorseful.”
“Oh, honey,” she says. “If I felt remorse for every bad thing I’ve done, I’d never get out of bed in the morning.”
“Why even do it then?” I ask, blurting out the same question I’d asked Leo last night.
Her wry smile dims. “I didn’t really have a choice.”
“You could have chosen to leave. Go someplace new, meet someone new. Live a life away from all this.”
She cocks her head to the side. “That would have involved loving Pavel a lot less than I did. Less than I still do.”
“Moving on doesn’t mean you don’t still love him,” I say. “He would want you to find someone—”
“There will never be anyone else for me. Ever,” she says with finality. “The best I can hope for is to make it right.”
“But how do you…”
“What?” she asks patiently.
“How do you stay sane?” I finish quietly.
“Sanity is a fickle thing. Honestly, during that first year with Belov, I wasn’t sure I could do it,” she admits. “I had to play this character. A femme fatale—no conscience, no remorse. I had to seduce the man who’d murdered my fiancé while I was still in the depths of grieving. The first time he touched me, I had to physically stop myself from crushing his throat.”
This is the first real conversation we’ve ever had. I feel like I’m speaking to the real person beneath all the beauty and bravado. Not some distorted, nightmare version of her that’s meant to intimidate and terrify.
“The first time he took me to bed, it felt like a small piece of my soul was breaking off, splintering away from the rest of me.”
“And yet you’ve done this for years now.”
“Yes… because it is the only way,” she says. “I want more than justice for Pavel. I want revenge. I want that fucking bastard to suffer before he dies.”
I nod, drinking it all in but not sure how to process it just yet. “Can I ask you a personal question?”
“You’ve asked me a few already,” she points out. Then she sighs and gestures. “Go on, out with it.”
“You’ve probably been alone with him countless times over the years, right?”
“You’re wondering why I didn’t just take one of those opportunities and kill him.”
“Well… yeah.”
“Because it’s not as simple as that,” Ariel explains. “The man is paranoid. He never lets his guard down. It’s one of the reasons he’s risen through the ranks the way he has.”
“But surely you could just—”
“If it was as simple as slashing his throat, I would,” Ariel interrupts. “But you want to hear something honest? A part of me is truly terrified of him. If I make one wrong move, I don’t just die. I die in the most painful way possible.”
She runs a hand down her cheek and over her elegant throat. “Don’t get me wrong: I’m ready for death, Willow,” she says softly. “I’ve been ready for death since I lost Pavel. But I don’t want to deal with any more pain than I already have. Every time that monster touches me, I suffer enough.”
I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to look at Ariel and forget Brit, but right now, I can at least see why Leo respects her so much. There is strength in there. Fire. Admirable fire.
“Have you thought about what happens after?” I ask.
“After?”
“After you get what you want? After you get your revenge?”
She looks towards the windows. “I have no fucking clue. I’ve been in this so long that sometimes, it feels like it’ll never end.”
“It’ll end. Everything does.”
The way we’re talking, I expect there to be tears in her eyes when she turns to me. But her blue eyes are bright. Her face is smooth, unbothered. She’s perfected the mask Anya tried and failed to teach me to wear.
“How did you get to be this way?” I ask in awe.
She raises her eyebrows. “Evil?”
“No,” I say. “Strong.”
She laughs. She clearly wasn’t expecting that. “I’m a good actress, I guess. Turns out that when your soul is broken, you can become anyone you want to be.”
We sit like that for a long time. We don’t talk, but it doesn’t really matter. The silence between us is no longer uncomfortable. It’s no longer bristling with tension and distrust.
After a long while, I smile and shake my head. “I can’t believe I’m just… sitting here with you.”
“Do I make you nervous?”
When she smiles, her white teeth gleam. I shiver without meaning to.
She arches a brow, still smiling. “Don’t worry: you’re safe from me. Your brute of a husband would skin me alive if I hurt you again.”
“He can’t have anything happening to the Mikhailov princess,” I scoff sarcastically.
She snorts. “Don’t play dumb, Willow. It doesn’t suit you.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
She leans in, her blue eyes sparking with something that looks suspiciously like sincerity. “Don’t you dare waste what you have, Willow. The man you care about is alive. He’s right in front of you. Make the most of it.”
I frown, bristling at the implication. “It’s not enough that I care about him. He has to care about me, too.”
She gives me an appraising look, as though she’s wondering how much she should say. “Pride,” she says at last. “Such a fucking waste of time.”
Now, it’s my turn to snort. “Have you told him that?”
She laughs and surveys me. “You know, I didn’t get it at first. But I do now. You’re a match for him.”