The reason she stopped her jealousy fits after the kidnapping wasn’t because of a screwed-up sense of sisterhood, it was because of guilt.
The way she insisted I tell her first if I remembered anything wasn’t because she wanted to be there for me. It was because she needed to warn Mrs. Pratt or shut me up if I ever decided to come forward.
The reason she was so jealous and disapproving of Landon wasn’t because she wanted to protect me like Nikolai does, it was because she was worried I was slipping between her fingers and confiding in someone else other than her.
Everything was lie after damn lie.
I don’t even think I know her anymore.
But I can’t focus on that when someone a lot more important is fighting for his life on the other side of the wall.
I always thought Maya was the closest to me, but she didn’t care for me unconditionally, Landon did.
He’s the one who told me for the first time in my life that I should kill the monster in my life instead of dying trying. He’s the one who encouraged me to talk again, even unknowingly.
Maya starts crying and calling for me, but Dad physically removes her and says he’ll take her home.
I don’t care. I just need her out of my sight for the foreseeable future.
Hell. Maybe it would be a good idea to never see her again.
Mom rubs my arm. Her face is ashen, her eyes a bit molten, as if she finds it as hard to process the situation as I do. Good. That way she understands how disoriented I feel about the entire thing and won’t force me to ‘talk it out’ with Maya.
“I’m so sorry, honey.”
“Forget it, Mom. I don’t want you apologizing on her behalf.” I’m talking and signing at the same time, I realize. I did the same earlier as well. Subconsciously. Until Maya grabbed my hands.
“I’m not apologizing for Maya. I’m apologizing for disappointing you as a mother. I should’ve seen the signs of Mrs. Pratt's authoritarian nanny style. I should’ve paid more attention to Maya’s small bursts of jealousy and her overindulgence in asking for attention. I chalked it up to coming-of-age symptoms and I’m so, so sorry, Mia.”
It's my turn to rub her arm. “It’s not your fault, Mom. You…couldn’t have guessed it was Mrs. Pratt when she quit a whole year beforehand. As for Maya…that’s all on her. I’ll be seriously mad if you offer excuses for her.”
“I won’t. I believe we all need time to process this before we take any further steps.” She strokes my hair and cheek as if trying to remove some of the blood stains.
I washed up and changed into Katya's spare bodyguard suit as soon as we got here, but I must still have some of Mrs. Pratt's remains on me.
Mom’s eyes fill with tears. “I don’t know what would’ve happened if she’d gotten you this time.”
“I’m here, Mom. It’s okay.”
“Oh, honey.” She pulls me in for a hug and I can feel her sniffling in my neck. “I’m so happy to finally hear your voice again.”
“Me, too, Mom. Me, too.”
“Excuse me?”
I disengage from my mom to look at the doctor, who just entered the waiting area. My steps are awkward and uncoordinated as I run toward him.
My heartbeat roars in my ears as I ask, “How’s Landon? Is he okay?”
“Perfectly fine, miss. Luckily, the bullet only hit some fat and tissue, and we were able to remove it successfully. The patient has been moved to his room and has regained consciousness if you wish to see him.”
A long breath heaves out of me. “Thank you! Thank you!”
Mom squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll be right here, honey.”
I nod and head to the recovery room. I pause for a second before I slip inside.
My heart beats in a frightening rhythm when I see him sitting in bed, half naked. Some blood forms a transparent sheen on his chest and a thick bandage is wrapped around his shoulder, hiding some of the snake tattoos underneath.
The longer I see him, the stronger the need to cry hits me.
He’s fiddling with the IV tube as if he wants to remove it. I jog to his side and place a hand on his. “What are you doing?”
He looks up at me, his face a bit drowsy and his eyes unfocused. “Mia, is that you?”
“Yeah. What are you trying to do?”
“Coming to see you.”
“But you’ve been shot!”
“Why should that stop me?” He strokes my hair behind my ear. “Fuck. I knew I’d love your voice since the first time I heard you whisper.”
I frown. “But I never spoke to you before.”
“You did while you were dreaming.”
“I did?”
“Yeah. I’ve loved it since and did everything in my power to make sure I’d hear it again.”
My gaze falls to his shoulder and pain explodes behind my rib cage. It hurts to see him in this state. Probably worse than if I were the one who’d been shot.
“But you got hurt because of me.”
“Worth it. Would do it again in a heartbeat.”
“Including killing Mrs. Pratt?”
“Especially that. She signed her death certificate when she hurt you.”
I cover his hand with mine. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being there for me. I wouldn’t have been able to do this without you.”
“I will always be here.”
The butterflies from earlier tonight explode again and I taste their sweetness on my tongue. I grip his hand tighter and my voice shakes as I whisper, “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why would you do that for me?”
“In case it’s not clear yet, I care about you, and when it’s someone I care about, which is decidedly few and far between, I protect them.”
“I still don’t understand. Are we in a relationship or are you just having your fun with me? Why would you care about me if…if you’re unable to feel love toward me?”
“Who says I’m unable to love you?”
“You couldn’t say it earlier.”
“Because I don’t like to label what I feel for you as love. This”—he points between us—“is much more potent and twisted than mere love. If loving someone means letting them go and wishing them happiness with someone else, then I don’t subscribe to that definition. But if love means protecting and wanting to take care of you till my dying day, then I love you more than anyone has ever loved another human being.”
My lips tremble. “You…do?”
“Depending on your definition of the word.” He takes my hands in his bigger ones, leans his forehead against mine, and closes his eyes.
I study his sharp jawline and the fluttering of his lashes over his skin. I’ve never seen someone so brutally beautiful as he is. And yet, at this moment, he feels like a different man.
No, not different. Changed.
I used to only see a monster in him, but I’ve found out he’s so much more than that.
No, he’ll probably never be normal, but I’m irrevocably in love with him, faults and all. He was born different and always will be, so why should he comply with social standards?
“Listen to me carefully, Mia. My whole life, I’ve been a desolate, empty entity of anarchy and violence. My black soul couldn’t survive without inflicting some form of chaos or producing a decadent burst of creativity, but even that has dwindled and started to drift from the center of my being. Without art, I’m nothing but a serial killer in the making. Ever since you came along, not only have you pushed my creativity to heights I never imagined would be possible, but you also filled up the emptiness with your stubborn submissiveness and stupid flowers with names. While I can’t possibly be your Prince Charming—and rightly so, since he’s an overrated idiot—and I can never be neurotypical, whether genetically or mentally, I promise you this, Mia. I’ll always see your perspective before mine, not because I have to, but because I want to. I’m in for the long haul.”
I stroke his cheek, careful not to press where his fading bruises are. “What if you get tired of me down the road?”
“Complete and utter nonsense. I’d get tired of myself before I’d ever get tired of you, and we both know that I believe myself to be God’s gift to humans.”
I chuckle and he opens his eyes, a sly grin lifting the corner of his lips. “Say it again.”
“What?”