Page 184 of Wicked Savage

Of never telling him I love him.

The regret is a blade, cutting deeper than any wound my father could inflict. I should have said it. Should have given him the truth instead of waiting. But now…now, he may never know. I swallow back the sob clawing its way up my throat.

No. I refuse to let this be the end.

I force myself to breathe, to focus, to stay alive. If there’s even a sliver of hope, a chance that someone—anyone—can save us, I have to hold on.

“That was always problem.” My father crouches before me, slow and deliberate, his presence suffocating as he presses the cold barrel of a gun beneath my chin. His dark eyes gleam with cruel satisfaction. “You were never on my side.”

“Never.” I meet his gaze, refusing to flinch, though fear coils tightly in my chest.

I won’t let him see it. I won’t give him the pleasure.

“Go ahead!” My voice rings out, sharp and unwavering. “Shoot me. You’ve been waiting for this moment, haven’t you?”

But instead of pulling the trigger, he curls his lips into a chilling smile. He straightens, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the idea.

“No… I don’t shoot you." His head tilts to the side as he gestures to someone just beyond my line of sight. “Hedoes.”

Confusion flickers through me. Until I see him: my brother Roman.

My stomach twists as he strides forward, dragging Tatiana with him, her sobs breaking through the heavy silence. Behind them, one of their men grips Gregory, my little brother’s tear-filled eyes darting between us.

Terror slinks through my veins like ice.

“So, you brought your little lapdog to do your dirty work?” I sneer at Roman, ignoring the way my body screams in pain.

He grins, a twisted, mocking expression. “Moya sestra.” His head tilts. “I was almost sad when I thought I killed you in that car crash.”

The words hit like a freight train. My vision tunnels.

The accident. The weeks of recovery. It was him.

My stomach lurches, but I manage a cold laugh. “Of course you failed. You always do.”

His smile vanishes. In an instant, he lashes out, his boot slamming into my ribs. Pain rips through me, white-hot and consuming, but I don’t scream. Even as my siblings cry out for him to stop, even as he kicks me again and again, I stay silent.

“Hvatit,” my father commands.Enough.

Roman halts instantly, panting, fists clenched. I struggle to lift my head, my vision blurred and spinning.

“Go on.” I lock eyes with my big brother. “Shoot me, then. But it won’t make you any more of a man.”

Tatiana sobs harder. “Please, Papa, stop!”

But my father merely sighs, shaking his head. “Oy, Moya Dinarochka. You misunderstand. Roman does not kill you.”

Dread curls through me, cold and sharp. “What?”

When he faces Gregory, my blood turns to ice.

My father places the gun in my little brother’s trembling hands. His small body shakes violently, his chest heaving with silent sobs.

“No,” I whisper, my throat closing. “Don’t do this to him.”

“I don’t do anything to my son. Unlike you, he loves his father. Has been on my side whole time. Haven’t you?”

My head spins, unable to understand any of this. What does he mean?

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