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You and me both, princess.
I’m sorry for Troian. I’m sorry for Chessa’s kids. But I’m not sorry I never have to look at that irritating bitch ever again.
“Troian’s a mess,” Mikhail adds. “But I have to head off.”
I throw the covers off and swing my legs out of bed. “I’m on my way.”
Feeling pleased with the day so far, I take a freezing shower to wake myself up, dress in something somber, and head around to Troian’s to give him my deepest, deepest condolences.
I find my brother in the living room with several of his older children, along with Chessa’s sister, Eleanor. She’s crying with the kids, but Troian just looks shell-shocked.
Troian’s leg cast is covered in colored marker, courtesy of all the kids. I clasp him around the shoulders and then sit down next to him, and we watch Eleanor on the opposite sofa with the children.
“She was only twenty-nine,” Troian says hoarsely. “I thought she’d fainted when I came out of the downstairs guest room this morning. Then I saw her face.”
“At least one of the kids didn’t find her,” I murmur, thinking of Zenya.
Troian gives me a tired smile in gratitude for my uncharacteristic sensitivity. “Thank you for being here, Kristian. Will you check on Zenya for me? Her brother and sister don’t remember much about the day their mom died, but she does.”
“Of course I will,” I reply, getting to my feet.
I find Zenya in the kitchen with the younger children. Her blonde hair is in an untidy pile on her head and her beautiful face is pinched with emotion, but she manages a small smile when she sees me.
She’s making chocolate chip pancakes and pouring cups of juice, her hands fluttering from frying pan to juice carton to cooking utensils as if she’s afraid to stop moving.
I turn the heat down on the stove and turn her gently to face me. “Are you okay, dandelion?”
Zenya locks her arms around my waist and buries her face in my chest. She stands like that for a moment, breathing hard, her whole body rigid.
“I’m fine. I am. I’m fine.” She whispers it over and over as if she can make herself believe it.
Zenya’s always been afraid of giving in to one moment of weakness. Most of the time she’s not bothered by anything. Blood. Violence. Torture. Death. Even—
I grit my teeth hard, because while the memory of that man on my fourteen-year-old niece doesn’t bother her, it makes me rage so hard I might spontaneously detonate and take out the neighborhood.
But other things have the power to shatter Zenya’s heart in a second, and one of them is the memory of her mom dying. This is why she needs me, because I can tell when she needs extra support and love even when she won’t ask for it.
A moment later she lets me go and turns back to the stove, turning the heat up and continuing with the pancakes. Brushing a strand of hair away from her face, she shoots me a wobbly smile and whispers, “I’m fine, really.”
“Sure, princess,” I murmur. But I’m not going anywhere.
I eat three of her pancakes because none of the kids are very hungry, and she’s worried that she made them wrong, then I help her clean up.
It’s usually bedlam in this house in the morning with so many kids. There’s Zenya and her brother and sister, Lana and Arron; three kids from Chessa’s first marriage, Felix, Noah, and Micaela; and two more that she had with Troian, Nadia and Danil. This morning there’s mostly silence, punctuated by crying.
Zenya’s face is pale as she stacks the dishwasher, but no matter how many times I tell her to sit down, she shakes her head.
Chessa’s youngest, Danil, is just sixteen months old, and Zenya scoops him out of his highchair when he starts to fuss.
“I know. You want your mom.” Zenya’s face crumples and she starts to cry silently. I feel my heart turn over in my chest because Zenya almost never cries. She won’t let herself, and sure enough, a moment later she takes a shuddering breath, blinks hard, and squashes her feelings down.
I stroke her cheek with my forefinger. This must be hell for her. The eldest child. The responsible one who has to hold it together for everyone else. I can’t relate because that person has always been my brother Troian, but I admire Zenya so much whenever she takes the lead for her siblings. It’s impressive. It’s—
Don’t think it, Kristian.
It’s sexy.
Well, it is. I can’t help the way I feel. It doesn’t mean I’m going to act on it. I’ll just admire her every chance I get and murder any man who looks at her. What’s wrong with that?
