Page 20 of Ruthless King
“You once fantasized about a life of peace for us,” he says. “And we have it. The children who aren’t destined to be casualties in some senseless war. Children who can study music over hatred and fighting. So, if to maintain that peace, I have to lie, I will lie.”
“She’ll learn about him soon enough,” Ellen says softly. “God forbid she runs into him. She’s back until September. Don’t tell me you plan to lock her away in a tower until then.”
“I won’t have to,” Mischa snaps. “She’ll have her pretty party and be distracted until her schooling resumes. She’ll be safe. As for now? Donatello Vanici isn’t welcome in my territory, and I’ve made that clear. If the motherfucker didn’t own half the damn harbor, I could drive him from the city altogether. From the country. As it stands, I won’t let him near her.”
“I know you love her,” Ellen says, her voice soothing. “But one day, she’ll have to face her past.”
“Not alone,” Mischa declares. “Never alone. And only when she’s ready to finally leave it behind.”
They grow silent, though it could be the sound of my pulse drowning them out. It surges through my ears, deafening me as I return to my room. My thoughts are a maze of confusion.
Betrayal.
And grim resignation.
Mischa is right.
As long as my past lives, I can’t.
6
WILLOW
Morning comes far too soon, and I rise from my bed, having barely slept. My head throbs as snippets of a nightmare still taunt me.
I had been there again. In the home I lived in before ever meeting Mischa, a beautiful manor every bit as storied as this one. Smaller in size but no less comforting, I can remember every inch of it so clearly it hurts.
In that home, I grew so much.
And in that home, I lost everything.
My present should be so much brighter. As if to taunt me, golden daylight streams in through my windows, warming my cheeks. Inside, however, I feel so cold. It’s like my thoughts have turned to ice, jagged, and painful.
Maybe Mischa was right? Ignoring the past is the only way forward. As the faint smell of cooking food carries on the air, I’m willing to try.
I get dressed in a sweater and jeans for now, but my debutante dress awaits, hanging from the front of my wardrobe as a glaring reminder of what today signifies. For all intents and purposes, I am nineteen, finally a woman.
Supposedly, I should be freed from the bonds of my childhood…
But dangerous thoughts creep into the silence, countering that narrative. I can’t help the comparison—would Donatello have spent as much on his version of my debutante ball? Would he have slaved over every detail and gushed with pride about his planning?
It stings to even imagine it. His smiling face. His sloppily wrapped gifts. The dress he’d design for me…
I don’t know how long I’ve been lost in thought when my door opens and a kind face peeks from behind it.
“You’re awake,” Ellen says warily. Her blue eyes are unusually guarded, her gray day dress subdued. Is she aware of what I overheard last night? As her gaze fixates on the dress, I can’t tell. She crosses to it, fingering a corner of the massive skirt. “I just wanted you to know that today is your day, and I’m so proud of you for humoring us. We know you hate parties. And dresses. And attention—”
I shake my head, cutting her off.
“Yes, but I just want you to know that we didn’t plan this on a whim,” she insists. “We’ve…”
She turns away, gazing through the gap in my white curtains to the view revealed beyond my bay windows. The vast stretch of the manor looms below, a yawning mass of emerald green lawns and sheltered forests. What does she see within such a realm? Safety? Or another looming reality that makes her bite her lip and clasp her hands?
One look at the slim fingers symbolizes the violent start to her relationship with Mischa that most wouldn’t expect when seeing them now. Rather than sporting a wedding ring as it should, the digit on her left hand itself ends abruptly at the knuckle, severed years ago.
“He’s been worried, you know,” she admits, her voice soft. “About what your proximity to him might do to your future. If doors might be slammed in your face, that otherwise wouldn’t be. He knows he isn’t perfect, but you and the other children… You mean the world to him. To give you what he thinks you deserve, he will do anything. I need you to know that. He loves you.”
So he lies to me.I could assert as much, but I don’t. Regardless, I’m startled by the anger building in my chest, so raw it hurts. I try choking it down and grit my teeth against it. Try to rationalize it away—he loves me, I know he does.
