Page 20 of Dance of Defiance
“C’mon, Roman!!”
I grin. “Just wanted to say hi before I took off.”
“Don’t go yet!” she calls back. “I’ll be out in a sec!”
“Cool. I’ll be in your room.”
As much as I enjoy teasing her, I fuckin’lovemy little sister. We have a great relationship, we can tell each other everything, and I amfiercelyprotective of her—maybe a little too much. That’s partly because I’m seven years older than her, and partly because Evie is…well,shelteredisn’t maybe the strong enough word to use.
That said, she’s also quite possibly the sweetest, kindest, gentlest, most honest person I’ve ever known.
I step back into her room and close the door to the bathroom behind me while she finishes up in the shower. A smirk plays over my lips as I take in her bedroom.
I’ve always joked that Evelina is the little princess of the family. Butfucking helldoes she lean into it well.
Pink.
“Pink” is how you would sum up my sister’s entire personality in one word. Not neon in-your-face pink. Not spoiled-brat Barbie pink.
Princess pink.
And by “princess”, I mean a singing, dancing, talks-to-cute-forest-animals Disney princess.
Her bedroom is a total extension of that. It’s pink, obviously, complete with a four-poster, gauze-draped princess bed, a huge,high-backed chair in her reading nook, shelves and shelves of books, pink and white gauzy drapes, and a pink fluffy throw rug.
Yet somehow, the whole setup looks wholesome and cozy, not sickly sweet and headache or diabetes-inducing.
Being seven years older, I moved out of this house a long time ago—first to attend Knightsblood University with Laz and Bane, where I also met and became close friends with Carmine and Nico Barone and Nero De Luca, then to my own place in midtown after I graduated.
Evelina would typically have also gone to Knightsblood too. It's kinda where you go when your family is mafia royalty. But when she got into the Zakharova Ballet due to herexceptionaltalent, not even Papa could say no.
I’ve tried putting a bug in her ear about moving out—I mean, sheistwenty-one. She could even move in with me if the idea of living on her own didn’t appeal. But she always deflects the question.
Honestly, I think shelikesstaying here and sleeping in the same bedroom she’s slept in her whole life, even if it does mean sharing a house with our father. And it’s not like living under this roof puts any cramps in her dating life.
She doesn’t have one.
Part of me wishes I could claim that my “scary big brother” energy sends the boys running for the hills. But it’s not me. It’s her being at times almost disturbingly innocent about the world mixed with what I’m pretty sure is a complete disinterest in dating. Or maybe she’s just an old-fashioned girl waiting for Prince Charming to sweep her off her feet.
In the meantime, though? No complaints here. It saves me the trouble of having to murder any fuckhead who hurts her, and I certainly sleep better at night knowing she’s not trying to navigate the creeps, weirdos, and predators of New York City.
While I wait for her to finish her shower, I cross the room and slump down into her high-backed reading chair in the corner, little string lights framing the shelves and shelves of books.
My brows knit as I look down at my hands and pick idly at a cuticle.
Tell her. Just fucking tell her.
My sister and I are close. We can, and often do, tell each other anything and everything. Well, noteverything, I guess. But lately, as the storm inside me has become harder to ignore, and as the weakness in me has grown… I’ve started to wonder about talking to her about it.
Maybe.
I don’t know.
I exhale. I don’t even have the words to describe that…thinginside me. ThethingI can normally bury down deep and ignore so well, but which came roaring back from the shadows with a vengeance last night.
…Whenhepinned me down.
When he touched me.
