Page 154 of Nemesis

“That’s quite manipulative of you,” I say, stepping forward to wipe a splatter of blood from my husband’s cheek.

He sighs, and I feel him melt beneath the light touch. His arms wrap my waist like he expects me to escape. “I’ll try manipulation, bribery—anything I can think of to keep you from becoming their martyr. I know you want Kirill back, but you will not exchange your life for his. I won’t allow it.”

I brush my thumb over his poisonous lips. “I⁠—”

“I know. You’re in charge.”

He buries his face in the crook of my neck. For the first time since our passionate kiss on the plane, I feel safe. It’s a dangerous feeling, especially since there’s a good chance I’m going to have to convince him to release me into a situation that’s anything but.

It takes everything to push out of his comforting hold.

“I need some time to think,” I say, stepping back.

“Think while I’m inside you,” he responds with a glare. “Think in my arms. Think while you hold my fucking hand.”

“Vas,”

He tries to wrap around me again, but I step further back.

“Vas, I need you downstairs, keeping an eye on the others. I don’t trust Ben, and Nik is destabilizing with every hour.”

He pulls a hand over his face in frustration, and it smears his cheeks red.

“Please. I need you to buy me some time.”

“We’re not done discussing this,” he warns.

“I know.”

He nods once. We stare at each other for a long while before he finally turns.

My feet start to follow him before I remember to stay still. I shut the door and slide to the floor, knocking over a stack of books as I do.

My body rebels at the denied comfort, desperate to absorb some of Vasiliy’s relentless strength. I don’t want to play martyr. Not with a beautiful husband and a life we’ve barely started together on the other side. But I can’t help but think about all of the people whose lives are on the line. Kirill, who’s locked up somewhere, bleeding and hurting all alone. Aunt Juliet, who’s been relegated to a safehouse and is depending on me to return her son. Even Anya, who’s back in New York waiting for Vasiliy to come get her and rebuild her life.

I can’t afford a selfish move, even if the alternative tears out my heart.

I wipe the wetness from my cheeks and lean forward, restacking the books I knocked down, but my hand freezes on one’s spine. There’s something different about it. Most of Dad’s books are dusty old novels that hold little interest to me, but these seem like journals.

I don’t remember him keeping journals.

Running my hand over the thick leather, I lift the cover.

Then I blink.

Nothing prepares me for the shock of the name inked inside.

Property of Della Popov.

Once I start reading, I find I can’t stop.

The entire stack of journals belonged to my mother. The earliest record starts in curly cursive with tiny hearts above the I’s and J’s. There are hundreds of entries, and I skim them as I flip the pages. A bored teenager, complaining about her father’s rules. A few chapters regarding school crushes, a few complaining about the endless house renovations her father’s new wife has been running. My tears dry as I read on, enraptured by my mother’s voice.

I set down the book, reaching for another in the stack. In this volume, she no longer dots the I’s with little hearts, but the voice has the same cadence.

He wants me to marry.

I’m seventeen!