Page 145 of Filthy Lies

Passion is a double-edged sword.

The heart wants what it wants, whether that’s good for it or not.

Love and hate aren’t opposites. They’re two sides of the same coin.

Ain’t that the truth? I want to hate him so, so badly. Everything would be easier if I did. I’d just snatch up my daughter and we’d ride off into the sunset like Thelma and Louise.

Instead, I’m stuck burning up with this obsession. I pace the length of our bedroom—twelve steps to the wall, pivot, twelve steps back, repeat—hoping the monotony will exhaust me into unconsciousness.

No such luck.

Vince’s words in the nursery echo through my skull.I still want you so badly I can taste it.

And I—ugh—I want him, too. Even now. Even after everything.

He loves me.

He loves me not.

He loves me.

He loves?—

The mental seesaw is exhausting. Let me off this stupid ride, please. I stop mid-stride and squeeze the bedpost until my knuckles whiten. This has to end. One way or another, the limbo has to fucking end.

The soft cotton of my nightgown clings to my skin as sweat beads along my spine. I stare at the locked bedroom door, the barrier I put between us, and wonder if it’s protecting me from him or from myself.

“Fuck this,” I whisper to the empty room.

I throw on a robe and yank the door open, decision made. The FBI’s ultimatum is poised over our heads like a guillotine blade, and that thing issharp. If there was ever a time to clear the air between us, it’s now—before one or both of us ends up dead or behind bars.

The hallway is silent save for the distant hum of the security system. I check on Sofiya first. She slumbers, unaware that her world is hanging by threads thinner than spider silk.

I brush a curl from her forehead and wonder, not for the first time, if I should have kept running. Taken her somewhere neither Vince nor the FBI would ever find us.

But you can’t outrun blood. Not your own, not your husband’s, and certainly not the shared mix that flows through your daughter’s veins.

The stairs creak beneath my bare feet as I descend toward Vince’s study. There’s light spilling from beneath the door—of course he’s still awake. The man functions on whiskey and rage. Sleep is merely an inconvenient stopgap between vengeful thoughts.

I don’t knock. This is still my house, no matter how tenuous my claim on it feels.

But when the door swings open, my heart stops.

Vince stands in the middle of the room with the barrel of a gun pressed against his forehead. Arkady’s finger is on the trigger. I freeze in the doorway as my already-overloaded brain struggles to process the scene before me.

“—be my fucking brother now,” Vince growls. “Lower the gun.”

Neither man has noticed me yet. I scan the room frantically, looking for a weapon. There’s a heavy crystal paperweight on the side table by the door. I could grab it, smash it into Arkady’s skull before he?—

“I’m sorry,” Arkady whispers, and something in his broken voice makes my blood run cold.

I lunge for the paperweight just as Vince’s eyes flick to mine.

“Rowan, don’t!” His command stops me mid-reach. “It’s okay.”

The absurdity of those words—It’s okay—as a gun presses against his head makes me want to scream.

“Lower the fucking gun, Arkady,” I snarl, stepping fully into the room. “Or I swear to God, I’ll kill you myself.”

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