Page 87

“The shipment is just a fluke; he’s planning something big.” His head touches the headrest, lazily looking at the ceiling. “I should’ve killed him that night.”

“I can handle myself round him, I’m not a kid anymore, stop protecting me.” I grumble.

I was eighteen and scared, mourning the death of my mother who I thought was alive.

And killing Vasily was the last thing on my mind. I couldn’t handle it, the panic was so sudden, it left my body trembling and sweating and I lost consciousness.

Roman was trying to help me when Vasily escaped, he chose to let my father go.

That night only solidified my resolve to be nothing like him. I swore he would be the last animal to stain our Zaytsev bloodline.

It ends here.

“Whatever you say, Moscow princess.” He scoffs like a fucking child.

“Shut it.” I almost bark making him laugh, he giggles for a whole minute ignoring my glares the entire time.

“So,” he clears his throat. “This thing with Elara, where do you see it going?”

I glare.

“I’m only asking, after all you chased her for years.”

“Not her, Roman.” I tell him simply.

“That serious?”

“Fuck no.” He’s merely looking at me, getting a read on my expressions and I can only sigh defeatedly. “I don’t know.” My hands rubbing my face as I lean backwards. “It’s different.”

“Different?”

“Yeah, I-I…” I think of all the times I’ve spent with her, thinking about her, the way I’ve hugged her, wiped her tears, the sight bothering me more than I’m letting on.

“You care for her.” He completes for me. “Weird.” He thinks, his brow squinting slightly as if deeply in thought.

The lines on his forehead crease as he keeps on pondering.

Did he fucking hit his head hard?

What’s with the dreamy expression?

Finally reaching a conclusion, a faint smile touches his lips and he nods as if talking to himself.

Anyways, we’ve already established he’s lunatic.

“Like Alec, you think it’s love too?” I ask and he all but recoils, his face mimicking disgust, his hand dramatically pressed on his chest. Jesus!

“What does Alec know about love?” True. What even is love?

For my father, love was about ownership, it was about control, a license to inflict pain without remorse. He used to say he loves mama every time he’d done beating her.

He wouldn’t apologise, just that he loves her and wouldn’t have to do this if mama hadn’t driven him to it.

For mama, it was enduring, it was suffering, it was escaping.

I don’t know where I lie among all this.

This is what I know of love, so yeah, I don’t love Elara.