Page 36 of Nemesync
He glares at me, a mixture of frustration and anger in his eyes. His gaze cut deeper and more painful than any words he ever said. They spoke of a love he never felt, not because of me, but because he could never feel it. That’s his nature, lunatic on the border, masking that void of affection with logical thinking.
He’s a psychopath, and he can’t love, not even his own daughter. “Be careful. I’ll always choose my family, blood or not.”
Of course, his work is more important.
Without another word, he gets into his car and drives away, leaving me standing there. It’s always been like this, cold and simple.
My father always said that Murphy’s Law applies to bad news—there’s never a good time for it. So, for example, on theday Luna died, he simply told me and left me alone to grapple with the fact that my best friend had taken her own life in a cold bathroom. He never asked if I was okay. He just entered, delivered the news, and exited as if it were nothing.
I hated him so much for that. I couldn’t fathom how a father could be so emotionally distant.
In my younger years, I thought that perhaps I would grow up to be as emotionless as him; cold, violent, devoid of remorse.
And it terrified me.
While I did adopt those cold and violent traits, remorse remains a significant aspect of my personality. I find myself feeling guilty for things I didn’t even do, replaying them in my mind until sadness and anger consume me. Then comes frustration, followed by endless anxiety.
Like right now, I’m sweating, overthinking the entire conversation repeatedly.
Why does it hurt so much? I already knew he would never choose me.
It shouldn’t be this painful.
But it is.
Deep down, I still hope that somehow a drop of love for me exists in his heart and that he will someday give it to me.
I’m so stupid, I know.
Why the hell would I do something like that? I live under his roof, under his command. I need a plan B,now.
I take a deep breath, close my eyes just long enough to stop overthinking. Tonight, I have my own mission to attend to, and nothing will stand in my way. Not even the great Elias Dellé.
11
ZANAE
Stepping out of my car, I notice both Nikolai and Elijah waiting for me. I didn’t know he would be here. I didn’t want him to be here.
The Devil is dressed in a black tailored suit that accentuates his commanding presence; he looks more dangerous than ever. His tattoos peek from under his shirt, on his neck and arms, even on his hands.
He has that scary look, the kind that makes me question if I have the right to look at those green eyes so intensely, or if he’s going to kill me for doing it.
“Look who decided to show up,” Elijah remarks as he eyes me from head to toe.Fire. So much fire.
Focus, Z, focus.
Nikolai chuckles and then smiles softly in my direction, “Zanae, beautifully late as always.”
I roll my eyes, looking into Elijah’s eyes, “Thanks, Nikolai.”
I sit on the chair, facing them. Elijah, however, seems distracted, his gaze lingering on me.
I catch his glance and raise an eyebrow, “Something on your mind, Volkov?”
He doesn’t even feel ashamed that I called him out, no emotions, just fire burning in those deep green eyes, “A lot of things, Zanae.”
“Planning to try to kill me again? I see,” I tease, curious about the secrecy of his thoughts, even if I fear what I might find.
