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“Whatever you say, Paige. I’ll just say that, one day, I wouldn’t mind meeting a man who makes me so angry that the rest of the world fades away.”
We’ve slowed to a walk now. More of a stroll, really. Our bodyguards look bored as hell as they hover around us like musclehead hummingbirds.
“I’d rather you wish for someone who adores you so much that the world fades away.” She smiles, and I link my arm with hers. “But I’m glad that you’re thinking about a future. I’m glad you’re not going to keep yourself on the shelf forever.”
Cyrille takes a deep breath. “Honestly, I never thought I’d get to this place. I mean, I’m still not ready…”
“But you want to be one day,” I infer.
She nods. “Yeah. One day.”
“Well, at least our fight did one good thing then.”
She nods again, then lapses into silence. It’s a nice night out. Warm and humid enough for every breeze to feel like a gentle caress.
“Do you think you could ever get to a place where you could forgive him?” Cyrille asks after a while.
I’ve asked myself that question a million times. I still have no idea.
“I’m scared to forgive him, Cyrille. I’m scared that the moment I do, he’s going to pull the rug out from underneath me and leave me vulnerable again. He’ll take it back. He’ll push me away. And I’ll be back to square one again. But worse, because I’ll be there with a broken heart.”
“Okay, but what if he doesn’t do that?”
I grab hold of my pendant. Hope might be an elusive beast, but even if you catch it, it’s hearty. It’s tough to kill.
So I push it aside and pray that, one day, it will simply die on its own.
108
MISHA
Konstantin and I stand side by side, looking down at the dead body at our feet.
“I didn’t entirely mean to kill him,” Konstantin admits. He runs a hand through his hair, dragging blood through the strands. “He was just wasting my time. He wouldn’t cough up shit.”
“Probably because he was too busy coughing up blood.”
Konstantin laughs, and I nudge his elbow. “We still have one left in the other cell. Once he knows his buddy is dead, maybe he’ll be encouraged to talk.”
Turning, we leave the cooling corpse of Petyr’s man behind us and walk into the adjoining cell together. I make sure to keep the door open so the dead body in the other room is visible.
“How are you doing, Fedor?” I ask nonchalantly.
His chin hangs low against his chest, but he stirs when I speak. Blood is matted in the lines of his face, aging him by at least a decade.
“F-fuck… you…” he coughs, rasping with each word.
“It’s time to expand the vocabulary,” I tell him. “Learn some new words. Tell me something useful.”
He spits blood on the concrete floor. “I ain’t talkin’.”
I shrug. “Then you’ll die.”
“Fucking kill me and get it over with!” he yells.
The words are still echoing off the walls when I pull out my gun and shoot him in the stomach. He screams and throws his weight backward. The chair tips and his body cracks against the floor.
But the death he wants so badly isn’t his quite yet.
