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“Because I’m a sucker for pain, and your boyfriend is going to make my death more fun than a stupid wheelchair bomb,” Smolyakov explains, cold and unaffected.
“So, you saved Ignas because you didn’t want to die a boring death?” I yank the sheet away from Smolyakov, twisting my body away from him. He doesn’t budge, and I end up hurting myself, thrashing myself against the bedframe. “You almost killed everyone I know. Why the fuck did you do that, Smolyakov?”
“Your daddy paid for the building. He paid for it to be destroyed. He didn’t want you to have any attachments left in Katantia. He wants you back by his side, Ivy Lin.” The calm I’m used to from Smolyakov has twisted into a broken record of nothing. I can’t dissect what’s wrong with him. Perhaps it’s everything.
He doesn’t seem to feel any remorse for his actions.
That puts him in a box with Hugh.
I don’t want to believe that Smolyakov simply got paid for his actions. There’s something sinister at work here, but I can’t read between the lines. He isn’t giving me anything.
“I’m not going back to him,” I hiss through my teeth.
“I know you’re not, you dumb slut. You have a new man, don’t you? I’ll wait here for him. What’s his specialty? Dismemberment? Asphyxiation? Does he like guns?” There’s a pounding in my ears, and Smolyakov’s jaded voice punches through it. His insults are the least of my worry. “I’m ready for it all. I’ll die by an expert hand. There’s nothing I want more than that.”
“You lied to me for years,” I blurt out. All this time, I believed I was alone, but Smolyakov was watching. He reported back to Hugh, letting him know that I was lonely and miserable.
Single.
The moment Jordan showed interest, Hugh found out.
We were never safe.
“I fucking did. And you never noticed,” Smolyakov says, an ominous cackle erupting from him. “I guess Winters fucked you clever. Not dumb. How could you keep me around? Why would I be interested in you? You’re just another slut that likes older men, Ivy. I’m surprised you never begged me to fuck you.”
I quiver where I lie, our joined memories breaking pieces of my peace.
I don’t have it in me to speak, and I know that he sees it. He’s vigilant like that, his skills reaching beyond mine. I built a space of safety for myself, trusting my friends to keep me in high spirits. I believed that he appreciated me as a friend.
It felt real.
“I’m glad it all burned down, you know,” Smolyakov says. “That way I don’t have to see your ugly face ever again. When’s Jordan coming back? How long will it take him to kill your daddy? I’m bored, and I want it to end.”
“You’re sick.”
“That’s what Ignas said when I fucked him for the first time,” Smolyakov says, shifting his gaze toward my injured friend.
The only friend that matters.
“I don’t know how long it’ll take him,” I jeer. I take harsh breaths, my heart pounding offbeat. “But when he comes, I’ll make sure you pay.”
“That’s what I’m counting on.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE
JORDAN
Fylox’s dungeonis like Christmas for us.
It’s one of the only places on Katantia that make me feel nostalgic.
My son-in-law and favorite second-in-command grins like he’s rummaging through Christmas cookies. Instead of cinnamon and Mariah Carey’s Christmas album, down here, it reeks of bleach and citrus. He’s in another corner, but I feel his energy radiate enthusiasm from where I stand.
The only sound I hear is the clicking of metals, the ones in my hands. While I’ve been romancing my little doe, Fylox received a new shipment of handguns from back home—a rare event with Katantia’s financial status.
“How much do you need?” Fylox asks. He’s got a system. It’s like a private library but for deadly weapons down here. He’s by the area of liquid poison, the chemicals. We’re not chemists, but in our active years, we’ve managed to read books, ask some involuntary friends about dealing with things like acid.
Blackmail is fun when you know how to push buttons.
