Page 42 of Brutal Union
The rejection stings worse than any slap. Alice sits propped against silk pillows in the Rosetti guest bed, still wearing Mother's white nightgown from yesterday's rescue. The fabric hangs loose on her thin frame, making her look even younger than nineteen.
"Don't." Her voice cracks on the single word.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, maintaining the distance she clearly needs. The morning sun cuts through the compound windows like judgment, illuminating dust motes that dance in the air between us. I barely slept last night. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt Marco's hands tangled in my hair, tasted him on my lips, remembered the power of bringing him to his knees. My knees throb with bruises from the marble floor, marks I wear like badges of the war I'm winning. Or losing. I can't tell anymore.
The scent of bergamot clings to my clothes from Marco's embrace this morning, a reminder that I'm walking between two worlds now. Somewhere below us, I hear muffled voices. Marco's men handling morning "business" that probably involves blood and pain. My body still aches from last night, and I shift uncomfortably, hyperaware of how I must smell like him.
"Alice, please. I came as soon as I could."
"You left me there." She won't meet my eyes, fingers picking at the nightgown's hem with the same nervous gesture Mother had. "You chose them. Chose him."
The accusation hangs between us, heavy with truth I can't deny. "He took me, Alice. I didn't have a choice in leaving."
"But you're choosing to stay." Now she looks at me, eyes red but sharp as Father's knives. "I can see it. The way you said his name when you found me. The way you look… settled. Like Mom looked, after she stopped fighting."
The comparison cuts deep. How do I explain that yes, I'm choosing this? That somewhere between being stolen and saved, I've started needing Marco like oxygen? That the cage has become home? The girl who threw wine at him would be horrified. The woman I'm becoming wants to kneel for him again.
"You're right," I admit quietly. "I am choosing to stay."
Alice's laugh is bitter, aged beyond her years. "So you're just like Mom. Loving the wrong man, staying when you should run."
"Mom didn't have options."
"Neither do you, apparently." She pulls her knees to her chest, a defensive gesture I remember from when Father would rage. "He kidnapped you, Valentina. Forced you to marry him at gunpoint. And you're defending him?"
"I'm not defending anything. I'm just…" I trail off, unable to find words that don't sound like betrayal or surrender. My fingers unconsciously drift to my throat where I can always feel the ghost of Marco's lips, and I force my hand back down.
"Do you love him?"
The question hangs between us, heavy as the bodies Marco leaves in his wake. I open my mouth, close it, try again. Nothing comes. The silence stretches, speaking louder than any confession could. God help me. This sick need for dangerous men must be hereditary.
Alice's expression softens slightly, understanding dawning. "I learned to read men's intentions the hard way. Watching Father destroy Mom piece by piece. You have that same lookshe got near the end. Like the violence stopped being scary and started being… necessary."
My eyes burn with unshed tears. "Mom died trying to leave."
"No," Alice corrects gently. "Mom died because she waited too long to choose. Either stay or go, but the indecision killed her. You're lucky. Your captor wants you alive. Mom's wanted her broken."
When did my baby sister become so wise about survival? I shift closer, and this time she doesn't pull away. "Can I?" I gesture to her tangled hair.
She nods, turning so I can reach the dark strands that match mine. I find the brush on the nightstand and begin working through the knots, the familiar rhythm soothing us both. We used to do this every night before bed, back when our biggest worry was Father's temper at dinner, not marriage contracts written in blood.
"I was so scared," she whispers as I brush. "When Father told me about Christopher O'Brien, about the wedding. I kept thinking you'd save me somehow."
"I'm sorry I wasn't there sooner."
"But you came." She reaches back to squeeze my hand. "You and your terrifying husband burned down our world to get me out."
My terrifying husband. The words feel right somehow. I think of his bloody knuckles, the casual violence, the way he kills with the same hands that make me espresso every morning. "He's not… he wouldn't hurt you, Alice. Or me."
"I know," she says simply. "I saw how he looked at you. Like you're the sun and he's been living in darkness. Like he'd kill anyone who tried to eclipse you."
The description makes my chest tight. "It's more complicated than that."
"Love always is. Especially when it comes with a body count." Alice turns to face me, looking older than her years. "Just… be careful, okay? Men like him, they love with the same intensity they destroy with. And in our world, that usually ends in blood."
Before I can respond, she pulls me into a fierce hug, burying her face in my shoulder like she used to during thunderstorms. "I don't want to lose you too," she mumbles against my shirt.
"You won't," I promise, holding her tight. "I'm not going anywhere."
