AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Why not?” His voice is even, his tone as bland as if we were speaking of going to a party. Leaning back, he picks up his cognac again, and this time, he takes a leisurely sip before setting it down.
I stare at him incredulously. “Because he’s a person.” How is this not self-evident? “An evil person, sure, but you can’t just go about killing anyone who—”
“Who tries to kill you? I can, and I will.”
My heart misses a beat. He means it, I can see it, and the realization fills me with all kinds of fucked-up emotions: gratitude overlaid with terror, hope edged with dread, and most disturbing, a vengeful sort of glee.
I want Bransford dead for what he did to my mom. I want it so badly I can taste it. And I want it for myself as well. I want my life back, my freedom, my peace of mind. I want to sleep through the night without nightmares and walk down the street without fear. I want to stop seeing danger in every pickup truck, every unfamiliar face.
I want Bransford six feet under, and if Nikolai makes it happen, I’ll be free… and as much of a murderer as he is.
It’s that last thought that squashes my dark longing. As much as I want freedom and vengeance, we’re talking about murder—cold-blooded, premeditated murder. It was one thing for Nikolai to dispatch the two armed assassins in the woods; as disturbing as it had been to witness, what he did is ultimately no different than what a cop in his situation might’ve done, minus the torture bit. What we’re discussing now is a whole other level of fucked up, and though some part of me can’t help but rejoice in Nikolai’s willingness to protect me to this extent, I can’t stand by and let it happen.
Since appealing to common-sense morality didn’t work, I try a different tack. “Nikolai, please. Be reasonable. He’s a prominent political figure. You can’t just kill him. It would be an assassination, one with major global ramifications. The FBI, the CIA, the media—”
“I know. Which is why I had to be certain of his guilt.”
Another chill runs down my spine. His face is implacable, his voice still disturbingly even. He’s thought this through; this isn’t some impulse on his part.
To protect me, he’s going to take out a presidential candidate, and there’s nothing I can do to change his mind.
I try anyway, if for no other reason than to protect him. “What about your family? The life you’re building here with Slava? If they find out you’re behind it—”
“They won’t.”
“How can you be so sure? There will be a global manhunt, the kind not seen since—”
“Zaychik…” Leaning forward, he covers my hands again, making me realize I’ve been wringing them on the table. His voice is soft, his tone eerily calm as his gaze holds mine. “I know what I’m doing. Bransford will die, and it will be of natural causes. His party will mourn, the nation will mourn, and then they’ll move on to another shiny new thing, some other silver-tongued politician.”
“Natural causes? At fifty-five?”
“A heart defect, hitherto undiagnosed. It will be properly tragic.” He sits back, picking up his glass. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way—and us Molotovs excel at finding those ways.”
20
Nikolai
She stands up shakily, staring at me, and I fight the urge to gather her into my arms. I fight it because underneath the need to comfort are darker, more dangerous urges, ones born of a hunger so deep and savage it scares even me.
Once I give in to it, once I unleash the beast snarling inside me, there will be no going back.
Two weeks I’ve given her. For two century-long weeks, I’ve done the impossible and stayed away. Well, not entirely. I’ve spent dozens of hours watching her through the cameras in Slava’s room and in her bedroom, but that and our brief interactions at mealtimes have only added to my torment.
I’ve never thought of myself as a masochist, but I must be, because I’ve willingly embraced the exquisite torture of having her within arm’s reach yet not allowing myself to possess her.
And tonight, it seems, is the ultimate test of my self-control. Because she’s finally sought me out, though not for the reasons I wished. A part of me hoped that she’d miss me, that she’d come to me because she wants me with the same desperation I want her.
Because she’s ready to be mine, with all that it implies.
“I should go to bed,” she says, her voice unsteady, and I have to quell a surge of disappointment. What did I expect? She’s shocked, and for a good reason. Few ordinary citizens realize how easy it is to make a murder look like something else—if that’s the desired outcome. All the high-profile assassinations and radiation poisonings that make the news are meant to be newsworthy. They’re a message, a warning to others who may try to go against the establishment.
