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“That’s not fair!” Mariya shrieks.
“Life isn’t fair. If it was, you’d be back at that crackhouse of an apartment, paying the consequence for your unbelievably stupid decision tonight.”
She gasps. “You think I deserved that?”
“I think actions have consequences. You’re lucky I’m the one dishing out the consequences and not fucking Ryder.”
I sit cross-legged in the middle of the bed facing the door and listen as Yakov and Mariya yell back and forth for what feels like hours. Finally, when Mariya’s voice is hoarse from screaming, Yakov picks her up and carries her into her room. I only know he locked the door because she begins pounding on it a few seconds after I hear it close.
I’m next.
I brace myself for Yakov to tear through my door and yell at me the way I deserve. I wait and wait… but Yakov never comes.
The house gets quiet and I’m still alone. Still sitting in the middle of the bed, staring at the door. In some ways, that’s worse.
At least if he was yelling, I’d have proof he cared.
As the hours tick by and the silence outside the bedroom door carries on—even Mariya finally stops banging on her door and goes to sleep—I feel more alone than I have in a long time.
I thought once Yakov got Mariya back safe and sound that things would get better. He’d be mad, but we could move on from this. He could forgive me.
Maybe there is no forgiveness for this. Maybe I messed up for the final time.
I lie on the bed for a while, clutching my roiling stomach until I bolt from the bed and drop to my knees in front of the toilet. There’s nothing in my gut except one stupid drink. Once the bile is gone, I heave over and over again. But there is no relief. My stomach is still churning when I make my way back to the bedroom and curl up on Yakov’s side of the bed.
Tonight was stressful. For all of us.
Things will be better in the morning, promises a little voice in my head.
I close my eyes and try desperately to believe the lie.
The smell of bacon pulls me from bed the next morning.
Not because I want breakfast; I’m still nauseous from last night. No, it’s the promise of Yakov standing in the kitchen with a spatula in one hand and a skillet in the other that gets me on my feet.
I walk down the hallway craving even one sliver of normalcy I can cling to. Things can’t be so bad if Yakov is making breakfast.
Then I turn the corner and my flimsy hopes turn to ash.
“Good morning,” Hope says, a forcefully cheerful smile on her face. “I’m making Mariya something to eat. Do you want anything?”
As if the smell of the bacon wasn’t bad enough, the sight of cracked eggs sitting in the bowl next to the stove almost pushes me over the edge.
I fight against a retch and shake my head. “No, I’m okay. Thanks.”
Hope pours the eggs into the skillet and says softly, “You should eat something. After the night you had.”
“News travels fast around here.”
“Yakov’s voice travels faster,” she mutters.
Great. Now, everyone in the mansion knows how much I fucked up. If they weren’t already lifelong members of Team Yakov, they will be now that I almost got him and his sister killed.
I stare at the countertop while Hope finishes cooking, breathing through my mouth to avoid too many breakfast smells. Throwing up on the counter wouldn’t put me on the staff’s good side, either.
When Hope finally slides eggs, bacon, and toast onto a plate, I stand up. “I’ll take that to Mariya if you want.”
Hope pulls the plate closer to her chest like I might steal it and run. “I’m not sure if Mr. Kulikov would want?—”
