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“A blanket.” My voice comes out a useless rasp, so I clear my throat and try again. “I can get a blanket. To rest him on.”
“So he’ll be more comfortable?” Kirill asks bitterly.
There’s a weird edge to his voice. Maybe grief. The croak of heartbreak. I step forward and place a hand on his shoulder blade. “Yeah. I’ll get his favorite one from upstairs and—”
Kirill whirls around, towering over me. “He can’t fucking feel anything anymore, Rayne. Do you understand that? Or are you really that stupid?”
His eyes are pure black. I’ve never seen anything like it.
“I—I understand,” I stammer. “I know. I just… I want to help.”
“You’ve helped plenty.”
What does that mean?I want to ask, but I can’t ask anything of Kirill right now. Not after what he’s witnessed tonight, what he’s feeling right now. My questions aren’t important in the face of this kind of tragedy.
“Silent all the sudden?” Kirill snaps. “Now of all times, you have nothing to say? You always get the last word. We’re all waiting. Floor is yours.”
I shake my head. “I want to help you, Kirill. Whatever you need. All I want is to help you.”
He jabs a finger in my direction. “Thatis why we’re here right now. Because you wanted to help. Because you made Ilya think he could do whatever he wanted. That he didn’t need me anymore.”
“That’s not what I was doing. I never wanted—”
“You wanted him out of the house?” he says, his top lip pulled back in a sneer. “Looks like you got your wish. Ilya got out of the fucking house, Rayne. Look at him now! Free as a motherfucking bird!”
He flings an arm in Ilya’s direction, but I can’t look. I won’t. I refuse to remember him like this. I refuse to accept that this is somehow my fault.
My throat is clogged with emotion and tears burn the backs of my eyes, but I swallow it all back. No one is going to feel sympathy for me here. That’s not what I want, anyway. I want to help. Truly.
So if blaming me makes Kirill feel better, even for a few minutes, then so be it. I can carry that burden.
“Say something!” Kirill roars.
Before I can find the words, he spins around and sends a lamp crashing off of a table. It shatters on the floor, shards scattering everywhere.
Kirill looks at the mess for a second before he grabs the table the lamp had been on and flings it at the wall. The drywall cracks like thunder. Dust sprays into the air.
“Kirill,” I plead, backing away from the carnage, “don’t do this. Please.”
I look around for German or Sonya, but we’re alone.
When I first met Ilya, he was throwing a tantrum like this. The difference is, under Ilya’s outburst, I saw confusion.
The only thing I see in Kirill is pain.
Rage. Grief. Raw, aching pain.
He turns to face me, his chest heaving. There’s a rivulet of blood running across the back of his hand, but he doesn’t even seem to notice. “What’s the matter, Rayne? Don’t you have some little mental tricks to help calm me down? Tell me your plan to make all of this better.Tap-tap-tapit all away.”
I blink back tears, but it’s impossible. They roll down my cheeks.
“Are you crying because you’re scared of me?” he asks. “Or is it guilt?”
The word punches me in the stomach. I gasp from the force of it.Guilt.He’s right. This is all my fault.
“I’m sorry,” I sob, emotion overwhelming me. My tears are a faucet I can’t turn off. “I’m so—I’m so sorry.”
Kirill’s face is merciless. “Just get out.”
