Page 101 of Ripped Lace (Ripped Bratva)

He’s in love with you.

He’s in love with you.

He’s in love with you.

Except that when he’s standing in front of me, like right now, it’s hard to believe that he feels anything for me but irritation at best and hatred at worst.

I’ve thrown a spanner into the works. One thing he’s wanted for nearly half a decade—destroy the men who destroyed his family—and I’ve sent it spiraling off the tracks. And beyond that, the secrets he needs to unravel the labyrinth that is Astra Tyrannis are locked somewhere in my head. I can’t uncover them no matter how hard I try.

So no, Matvei is wrong—Phoenix doesn’t love me. He can’t.

I can’t even love myself.

I push off the bed and walk over to where Phoenix has stopped in the center of the room. He doesn’t move away from me, but he doesn’t exactly look thrilled by the proximity, either.

We’re hanging in this chasm of love and loss and violence. Neither of us daring to look down, for fear of seeing nothing but shadows and jagged rocks beneath our feet.

I notice a small fleck of blood on the side of his wrist that he’s missed. I reach out and rub it away instinctively.

“What did you feel?” he asks suddenly. “When you watched him scream?”

I tense, taken aback by the question. “Pity,” I say in the end. “I felt pity.”

“Pity? Or sympathy?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Everything,” Phoenix rasps.

I frown. “Does it matter? Either. Both.”

His eyes go cold. “Wrong answer.”

I sigh. “You came here to fight, didn’t you?”

He growls low in his throat. “I came here to make sure you understood the gravity of the situation. If you want to make certain decisions, then you have to face the consequences. Not that this is even a consequence.”

“No?” I ask harshly. “What would you call it then?”

“Progress,” he replies. “This is the work. This is the fucking job.”

“What will you do if he does start talking?” I ask.

“Make sure he doesn’t stop talking until he’s bled out every last drop of truth,” Phoenix answers grimly. “Then I’ll bleed out the rest of him.” His voice is frigid. Artic. Not an ounce of compassion anywhere to be found.

Maybe he wasn’t lying, back in the cathedral what feels like a lifetime ago. Maybe he really doesn’t have any humanity left to give.

“So there’s no hope for him,” I say tonelessly. “Even after he gives you what you want.”

“He chose his fate.”

“Why?” I plead. “Why do this?”

“Because he’s still the enemy and the enemy can’t be trusted.”

“Do you trust anyone, Phoenix?” I blurt out.

His eyes narrow infinitesimally. “Not as far as I can help it. But some people still manage to steal your trust when you’re least expecting it.”

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