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My hands lay limply at my sides, my jaw throbbing from how tightly I’m clenching it. No one speaks while I work to get myself back in control. His arms stay banded around me, and at some point, Kon’s hand wraps around the back of my head. There’s no judgment, no questions, no pressure to end this unusual moment of comfort.
Finally, I find the words I haven’t wanted to say, words I haven’t wanted to think. With more strength than I feel like I have left, I let them fall into the silence around us.
“He raped Eve.”
For a long minute, no one speaks and I peel myself away from them, discreetly wiping my cheeks on my bare shoulder. But then, all hell breaks loose.
With a deep sigh, I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and lean against the island while Kon and Chase shoot a barrage of loaded, jumbled questions at me. I take a long drink and drop it on the counter, my fingers wrapped so tightly around the plastic, the bottle bulges.
“Guys,” I grunt.
They’re bickering with each other now, their voices loud, their faces a mixture of emotions I don’t care to pick apart. My eyes flit to the hall that leads to my bedroom and I’m thankful to find it empty. The walls are thick as fuck, practically soundproofed from the brick, but still. She’s been through enough. I don’t want them to bother her.
“Guys!”
This time, they both shut up and turn to face me. Kon’s tanned skin is red from his anger and Chase’s eyes are clouded over.
“What happened, Ro?” he murmurs, his voice thick.
I take another drink, and with a deep, slow exhale, I tell them everything, leaving nothing out.
I start at the beginning, when I was a broken kid whose mom had just died, and I wound up in the nicest house I’d ever seen. I leave out the parts of my mom’s death, fragments and flashes from that day that I still don’t understand, but I tell them everything else.
About Jane and Grant, stories I’ve probably already spoken over the years, but for some reason, feel the need to purge again. I tell them about the little girl I met, only two at the time. Her hair was so gold, I thought she was an angel. I liked hanging out with Eve. I knew she wasn’t my sister, not really, but she was a friend, sort of, like Jane and Grant.
I recall the way my father came in and out of my life that year. How he’d show up for meals in a place I eventually felt was my home. He’d stare longingly at the nice décor and watch the way Jane doted on Grant. The way Grant loved her and Eve.
They were so fucking happy and for a while, I was too.
Then, he got better and took me away.
I tell them about the basement.
The abuse, the lashings, the lessons. The confusion I felt as a little kid when he’d tell me to be better, to try harder, to be different. I didn’t understand how my mere existence could be so wrong in his eyes, how I could embarrass him just by speaking.
But I did.
And then, Grant got sick and Jane called my father, asked us to come say goodbye. I was barely a teenager at that time, just a gawky preteen, but I remember it like it was yesterday. Remember seeing him for the first time in years, wrapped in wires and looking like a shell of the giant, great man I once knew. Seeing Jane, thinner and more worn out than before, but still beautiful.
I remember seeing Eve.
She was nine, her hair just past her shoulders, and a bit blonder than golden, but when the sun hit her just right, I swear, she glowed. And when she smiled at me? Christ, I was done for.
Will she ever smile at me like that again?
There, in the kitchen of my home, the only place I’ve ever felt I truly belonged, I purge my soul for the two people who’ve been there for me every step of the way. Even when the world tried to break me and the earth tried to swallow me whole.
For the first time, I admit I’ve been in love with Evelyn Meyer, my stepsister, my friend, my enemy, my everything, for as long as I can remember. And then, I tell them how I let the man I hate more than life itself destroy her.
I watch as Kon paces back and forth, back and forth, his motions smooth, yet erratic, like a caged lion—fierce, determined, strong. His lips move as he mutters words, a mixture of English and Russian.
“I should have fucking killed him when I had the chance,” he grunts, his fists clenching and unclenching repeatedly.
I run a hand through my hair. “So should I.”
His head snaps to me and he freezes, pointing a thick, tattooed finger at me. “Don’t you fucking dare, Pyro,” he barks. I cock a weary brow. “I see that look in your eyes. See the rage boiling inside you. You want to kill him. And if she weren’t here, you would. I know it. But I won’t fucking let you have that shit on your soul. I won’t.”
My hands smack on the marble countertop as I lean forward, my entire face a mask of rage.
