Page 38 of Marked By His Touch

My mind is still a hurricane from last night. The newspaper article. My parents being Russian immigrants. Why did they hide it from me? Why did they try to make me forget? Could they be connected to Veles?

No, they couldn’t be, surely.

My father's smiling, innocent face. My mother's delicate paintings and sweet perfume. Their calm demeanor. It doesn't add up.There's no way.I haven't told Alexander about who I am yet—there's too much between us. And the doubts are creeping in. The burglary before my parents died—was it connected to this? To Veles? Were they on to my parents? Hunting them? There are too many unknowns to involve him right now.I don’t even know who I am anymore.

Alexander breaks the silence. “Ava—” He starts to speak but stops, a frustrated sigh escaping his lips.

“What?” I say, a little too sharp, a little too annoyed. My mind is preoccupied.

My lies are burning in my throat. I want to tell him everything, confess, but I know what will happen. He won’t let me go. He won’t let me help. He’s still grieving, grieving Michelle, grieving my disobedience, grieving his lack of ability to keep me safe.

He doesn’t respond, his gaze drifting to the woods around us, his jaw clenched tight. “Are you alright?” he finally asks, his voice quiet, his gaze intense, searching for truth beneath my carefully constructed facade.

“I’m fine,” I force a smile, but the truth is, I’m falling apart inside. “Just a little tired, that’s all.”

“From what?” His voice is raspy. He sees through me and understands the lies I’m weaving.

“From being—a ragdoll,” I say, a tear rolling down my cheek.

He stops and pulls me in, his hand cupping my cheek, his touch gentle, a fleeting reminder of the love that binds us. Heholds my gaze, his eyes full of concern. His arm encircles my shoulders.

“I miss you, Ava,” he says. “You’re not a—ragdoll. You’re Ava Parker, you’re strong.”

I don’t say anything. I miss him too, but I’m afraid I’ll give in now. If I open myself to him again, I’ll spill it all, tell him everything, and ruin everything about the plan tonight.

I hold him tight, trying to silence my mind.

We say nothing, just hold each other. The rain begins to fall, a soft, sweet drizzle. A squirrel scurries up a nearby tree, taking cover from the rain. For a moment, I wish I was that squirrel, taking refuge so quickly, not worrying about other things. Living a simple life.

“You’re pushing yourself too hard with thistraining,” he murmurs. “I’m not asking you to sit here and do nothing, but you must take care of yourself.”

“I’m fine,” I insist, but my voice cracks. “I’m doing what needs to be done.”

He looks at me with his ice-blue eyes. “You’re not a soldier, Ava. You don’t have to fight every battle.”

“I haven’t foughtanybattles,” I snap again. I don’t mean to bite at him, but I can’t help myself. I’ve donenothingthus far.

He sighs, a rumbling sound that vibrates through me. “I understand,” he says. “But Ava— I–I’m afr— I don’t want to lose you.”

My heart clenches. I love him so much it physically hurts. But I also know that I can’t let him stop me. I can’t let him shield me from this. I know he’s trying to let me be me, but it’s hard for him. It doesn’t come naturally.

“I’ll be fine.Wewill be fine,” I say, but the words feel hollow, empty, even to me.

He takes my hand, his fingers intertwining with mine. His grip is warm. But there are too many lies between us, too many things left unsaid.

I wonder if our love can survive this—the danger, his grief, our sorrow, my secrets. I see it in his eyes; I see his doubts and fears, and I look down, my own fears mirrored in his. I don’t want to see it, I don’t want to believe it, I don’t want to believe that this is the beginning of the end.

I’m standingin front of the mirror in Zara’s room, my reflection looking back at me like a stranger. My fingers are steady as I blend the smoky purple shadow across my lids. I run my fingers through my still-damp hair, adjusting the black dress Zara picked. It’s a little too tight, but I think that was the point.

I’m Anya Petrov tonight, embracing all of my cultural heritage.

The scent of lavender, Zara’s signature scent, meets my nostrils. I pick up my phone and start typing. Finally, we have internet access, but Katerina only gives us an hour. She’s paranoid about it being traceable, and she might be right.

I type in “Sarah Frank” and add “Spectrum Design Studio” to the search, clutching at any hope for an explanation about Sarah and the Raven. The screen lights up, and the results hit me like a punch to the gut.

“Sarah Frank, Employee, Spectrum Design Studio.” A picture of a smiling redhead pops up on my screen. I nearly lose my breath. Imiss her so much.

Still, it can’t be right, can it?

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