Page 15 of Our Violent Ends
A breeze floated in from Alisa’s window, and Roma walked toward it, pulling down the pane to keep the cold out. He didn’t say anything as he huffed a breath onto the glass. He only blew until there was considerable mist, and then with his finger, he drew a little face that was smiling.
“Is that supposed to be motivating?” Alisa asked, watching over his shoulder.
He reached over to pinch her cheeks. “It’s supposed to be you. Tiny and annoying.”
Alisa smacked his hands away.“Roma.”
It wasn’t that he didn’t like spending time with his sister, but he had a suspicion she was asking for these lessons only to distract him from his other tasks. And it wasn’t that he didn’t like hanging around with his sister instead of tending to his other tasks, but he was also sure the little scamp had schemed this up only to prevent him from guarding their territory lines, not because she actually wanted to learn how to punch an attacker.
“This is very important, you know,” Alisa said now, as if she could sense where his train of thought was going. “I was in a coma for solong.I cannot be weak! I must know how to punch bad men!”
A thump came through the floor. It was either a sitting room in the house growing too raucous, or someone on the level below throwing knives at the wall. Roma heaved an exhale, then positioned Alisa, making her hold her arms out.
“Okay. Try again then. Keep your fist tight.”
Alisa tried again. And again. And again. No matter what she did, her blocks were flimsy and her efforts at striking Roma when he pretended to grab her were soft and wobbly.
“Why don’t we stop here?” Roma said eventually.
“No!” Alisa exclaimed. She stamped her foot down. “You haven’t taught me how to hit. Or shoot! Or catch a knife!”
“Catch a . . .” Roma trailed off, flabbergasted. “Why do you want to—you know what, never mind.” He shook his head. “Alisochka, no one learns how to fight in one day.”
Alisa folded her arms, storming over to her bed and collapsing in a flurry of movement. Her sheets flew up and settled down around her like a white aura.
“I bet Juliette learned to fight in one day,” she grumbled.
Roma froze. He felt his blood flash hot, then cold, then somehow both at once—a simultaneous broiling fury paired with a frozen fear just at the mere sound of her name.
“You shouldn’t want to beanythinglike Juliette,” he snapped. He wanted to believe it. If he said it enough times, maybe he would. Maybe he could look past the illusions she glimmered with, look underneath the wide eyes she blinked at him even as she spilled blood at his feet. No matter how brightly she shone, Juliette’s heart had turned as charred as coal.
“I know,” Alisa muttered, matching Roma’s tone. She was grumpy now because it sounded like Roma was grumpy at her, and Roma swallowed his anger, knowing it was misdirected. It prickled at him that he had become so easily irritable, and yet he couldn’t stop himself. The red-hot urge to be terrible was always pulling at his skin, easier to slip into than ignore.
Roma rolled up his sleeves, checking the clock on her mantel. Alisa seemed content to have a little brooding moment, so he walked over and poked her belly. “I’m needed elsewhere. We can pick up another time.”
“Okay.” Another low grumble, her arms folded tightly. “Don’t die.”
His brow lifted. He’d expected Alisa to protest, to ask again why he needed to be on the streets and watching their territory lines. But all these months singing the same tune had tired her out.
“I won’t.” He prodded her again. “Practice your stances.”
Roma left her room, closing the door behind himself. The fourth floor was quieter than usual, void of the thumping that had been heard earlier. Perhaps they too had tired of trying to learn to throw a knife.
I bet Juliette learned to fight in one day.
Damn Juliette. It wasn’t enough that she had to occupy his thoughts, sunken into his very bones. It wasn’t enough that she had to appear in the city everywhere he needed to go, trailing him like a shadow. She had to come into his home as well, graced across White Flower lips like the final frontier of her invasion.
“Where are you off to?”
Roma’s stride didn’t stop as he came off the stairs. “That would be none of your business.”
“Wait,” Dimitri demanded.
Roma didn’t need to. Nothing was preventing him from treating Dimitri Voronin however he wished, turning the tables until the whole house was dizzy, because Dimitri Voronin had gotten comfortable as the favorite, and now Roma had decided he wanted the whole Scarlet Gang dead after all. So many years spent trying to balance being the heir and being good, and with one snap of his fingers, the goodness gave way for violence, and Lord Montagov had liked the look of it. Being a White Flower was about playing the game. And Roma was finally playing.
“What is it?” Roma asked dully, making an exaggerated show of slowing down and turning around.
Dimitri, who was sitting on one of the plush green couches, stared forward curiously, his fingers tapping on the back of the couch, one foot resting against his other knee.
