Page 69 of Brutal Union
The star sails forward and misses the target by two inches. A part of me wants to scream.
Boris would’ve struck Aleksandr and Nikolai across the face for that kind of failure, saying they weren’t even worthy of dinner since they’d be dead in the field anyway.
To me, he would’ve simply said he expected disappointment from a girl.
And I’d stay out all night—alone—throwing star after star until my fingers bled, punishing myself to be just as good. Just as ruthless. Just as untouchable.
I know this type of punishment works. I know this type of punishment would burn all the goodness inside of her and therefore I bite my cheek, fight my base instinct of disappointment and pat her hip twice as lovingly as I can. My other hand pitches her elbow.
“Almost. Higher elbow,” I call out, my voice slicing through the quiet.
Mia shifts in her stance, adjusting her grip the way I showed her, tongue poking out the corner of her mouth like she’s drawing a masterpiece instead of preparing to throw sharpened steel.
I should have her in art class. Ballet. Something soft. But soft things die in this life. And even if I protect her from the pain of the world around her, at some point she is going to need to know how to protect herself.
Mia’s fingers tremble around the edge of the ninja star, and I watch her stance like a hawk sizing up prey. Too wide. Too stiff. Her shoulders are up by her ears, like the weapon might bite her if she breathes wrong.
“You’re gripping it too tight,” I say, my voice straining as I try to sound as sweet as I normally do when I see her.
She turns to me with that scrunched-up expression she gets when she’s trying not to pout. “If I don’t hold it tight, it’ll fall out.”
“If you hold it like that, it won’t fall out—sure. But only after it slices your fingers open on the way down.” She flinches, but I don’t coddle.
I reach for her hand. Her fingers are small, delicate, still covered in faint glitter from whatever book she was reading this morning. I should send her inside. Tell her to go paint or read poetry. But I won’t. The world won’t give her softness, and I’d rather she learn sharp things from me than someone who doesn’t love her.
“Here,” I say, adjusting her grip. “Not too tight. Think of it like an egg. Too tight and you’ll break it, okay?”
She nods, swallowing whatever fear is bubbling in her throat. I see it. I ignore it, because this is more important than her fear. More important than her tears.
“Aunt Nadi?” She whimpers, the excitement of being cool like Aunt Nadi has worn off and now all I hear is her fear.
I crouch forward, placing one knee in the dirt and tuck a loose strand of her honey-blonde hair behind her ear. “Yes Mia.”
She blinks up at me, tears crusting over her bottom lashes. “I think I cut myself.”
I glance down at her hand, and sure enough, a small bead of blood trickles down her arm, thin and bright against her skin. It's not deep. Barely more than a paper cut. But that doesn't matter. Because something inside me shifts.
A part of me snaps—old reflexes urging me to scold her for letting her guard down. For being careless. But another part… stares at that blood like it’s a mirror. A line between human and monster. Between what she is and what I became far too young.
The will to be empathetic rises like something foreign, something I once buried. I force every violent instinct to heel.
I nod and pull away, slowly, carefully taking the ninja star from her hand. “That you did, Solnyshko,” I murmur.
I press a kiss to the center of her tiny palm, a gesture I’ve never seen done, just felt was right, and then I lift my voice toward the house. “Gwen! Mia cut herself.”
The porch groans as footsteps rush forward. Gwen emerges, radiant even in faded denim jeans and a white t-shirt, her thick black curls piled into a high ponytail. There’s a kind of grace in her I’ve never had—no matter how hard I pretend.
She runs to us, barefoot and smiling, that perfect softness etched into her like it was inherited. She scoops Mia into her arms and whispers something low and soothing against her ear, her voice coated in honey.
I stare at the two of them. This family… all the goodness in it lives in everyone else but me. And sometimes, quietly, I hate them for it. What did I do in a past life to end up with all this bad fucking luck?
I don’t wait for Gwen’s mothering to make me ill. I don’t wait for Mia to tell me that next time she will hit the mark, or look at me without anxiety and fear. I turn and walk away, boots crunching against the dirt path as I make my way toward the house.
The kitchen smells like rosemary and spice—Nik must’ve been up for a while. He stands at the stove, shirtless, tattoos half-faded under the afternoon light, my name carved into him in thin sharp marks along his torso and a pan of steaks sizzling in front of him like he’s trying to pretend things are normal.
“Practice go well?” he asks without turning.
I pour myself a glass of water and lean against the counter. “Your children are not fighters.”
