✦ ✦ ✦
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR JIYA DEEPAK STEPPED out onto the asphalt of Arrowsmith Institute for Excellency's car park, the sound of her smart heels clicking on the floor was lost by the panicked crying and screaming and blaring sirens that echoed around the campus. The school itself was painted in colours of flaring red and blue as police and ambulance lights shed brightness upon the dirty secrets littered across the campus, exposing what shadowed truths lay hidden.
An officer was quick to approach her, a younger man with a grim face. Though, no one's face was as grim as hers.
Jiya walked across the car park without halt.
She could already taste the scandal that this case would bring. She didn't want anything to do with it, yet here she was, roused from her bed in the city to a school that oozed privilege from its bricked walls.
"Detective Inspector Deepak," respectfully addressed the man as he fell into step beside her, walking past throngs of whispering students bedecked in gowns and suits of exquisite make. Silk and gossamer would not hide their secrets from the detective, however.
She felt their eyes trace her as she passed, curious and predatory— more like tigers than teenagers. Blood had been spilled this night and it appeared the privileged students of Arrowsmith did not mind spilling more.
She paid them no heed.
Jiya's attention was caught on only one group of teenagers tonight and she'd been informed that they'd been successfully subdued in the school's library.
Whatever the officer meant to say next, as they broke from the cluttered car park, down a quieter cobblestone walkway of the school, Jiya did not wait to hear. Instead, she asked, "The Arsov girl?"
Even the name felt heavy on her tongue.
She was glad that no students were here along this walkway to hear her speak it, the students having been ushered away from the main compound as quickly as possible, pulled from the glittering Winter Ball when bullets had begun to fly.
The officer's hesitation to respond made her stop in her step. She turned a dark stare onto the man. "The Arsov girl, officer?" asked Jiya once again. She was already tired of this case.
"Ma'am," he said, fiddling his fingers. "I'm afraid she's gone to the hospital."
Jiya inhaled shortly. Then, she snapped, "You people let the girl who just shot someone walk away?"
But she wasn't even too surprised. This case was already stinking of the chaos of rich people, the type of people who did not care for the law, the type of chaos that made you understand that lead and diamond were both made from the same thing— that jewels and bullets were much more closely linked than you'd think.
"Well, er—" The man shrunk from Jiya's foreboding gaze. "Her brother argued on her behalf— took her with him to—,"
She sighed, cutting him off as she pressed fingers to her forehead, already feeling the headache coming on. She should not blame the man or his colleagues for letting Freya Arsov leave. When faced with snarling people who owned more money than a single human being ever should, most people tended to relent.
"And the boy?" Jiya asked, resuming walking. She knew her way around this school. She'd once been a student on a scholarship here. It was how she knew exactly where the library was. It was perhaps why they'd given her this case, to begin with, rousing her from her warm bed to traipse these cold halls.
The man was still pale. He gave a single, wary shake of his head in reply to her question and Jiya did not ask any more questions about Matthew al Nassar after that.
"They are in here, no?" inquired the detective as she paused outside the library doors, below a little outdoor corridor of sorts that stood at the side of the library.
The officer nodded. Jiya didn't bother thanking him for his assistance— since he hadn't given her much— as she pushed through the library's side entrance.
She was surprised to see Vidia al Nassar in there. The woman rushed to her, lifting her head from where she'd buried it in her hands. "Jiya," went the woman, her light brown eyes were wide. "They won't let me leave. Just tell me which hospital it is. Please."
Jiya lifted her eyes to the trio of officers who stood some shelves away, watching the exchange.
She cleared her throat, facing the officers. "Why have you not allowed her to leave?"
"She is the headmistress, Detetc—," protested one of the officers.
Jiya didn't spare him another look, snapping, "Let her go. She is the boy's aunt. Have you no compassion?"
"But—," the officer dared to interrupt once again. Jiya refrained from pinching the bridge of her nose.
She scowled instead. "She will be brought in for questioning later, officer."
The tone was enough to make the man fall silent.
She returned her eyes to Vidia, who she had known for many years, though she wished they were not currently meeting under such circumstances. "Go," she said in as soft a voice she could manage to summon given their situation.
The headmistress wasted no time, flying from the room like a wild creature, leaving Jiya with her officers and the collection of teenagers she had to interview.
She lifted her eyes to the trio and asked, "Where are they? Have you separated them?"
The one she had not silenced before answered, "No, ma'am. They refused to be separated."
Jiya sighed. This time, she did pinch the bridge of her nose.
The rules were already blurry, the lines of the law became blurred when extreme amounts of money became involved. Who do you respect more? The man who could put you behind bars for the rest of your life or the man who could buy you and your entire family seven times over?
She didn't even bother scolding these officers. She only lifted her head, waved a hand and said, "Take me to them."
A lone officer detached from the group and began to weave through the aisles of books, the tall shelves and marble floors speaking of wealth. The library had been smaller when Jiya went here. She remembered sneaking between shelves to kiss a rugged boy from Cyan Hall. Other than the size, the space hadn't changed. And the sharp eyes of the teenagers who attended this school hadn't changed either.
Jiya looked over her shoulder, nodding to the officer to stand by while Jiya did her job.
At the sound of her heels, four pairs of eyes found her.
Jiya walked down the length of the table the girls were seated at, listing the names she'd read on her way here, the social media post that they'd sent her of the girls flashing behind her eyes. None of them were smiling as they'd been in that picture. And the fifth girl— Freya Arsov— was not here.
"Amelie Perrin." The blonde who was wound up tight like a whip waiting to swing, straightened, her eyes flashing upon the detective. Weariness pooled from her. Her bright yellow dress contrasted with the dark look in her eye.
"Juliet Grimaldi," she went, watching the tear-stained face of the pretty Monaco-royal morph into one of distrust. She bit her lip to keep it from trembling. Her green gaze didn't waver from Jiya's though.
"Mayella Vance." A scowl marred the face of the porcelain-skinned girl. She bore an expression in her eyes that could tear someone to pieces, her hands fisted tightly at the emerald skirts of her dress.
"And Raina al Hassan," finished Jiya. Raina didn't meet her eyes like the others. She was slumped somewhat in her seat, her dark hair cascading into her face, blocking some of her expression. Jiya was going to turn away when at last, Raina lifted her head. Her face was as hard as stone.
This was when Jiya knew she wasn't going to get anywhere from interrogating these girls.
Still, she sighed and slid into the chair opposite Amelie Perrin.
"I'd like to ask you girls a few questions—," she began.
Amelie cut her off. "I'm sorry— no, wait, I'm not sorry at all." A sharp smile that didn't touch any of their eyes graced the blonde's face. "And I didn't catch your name? But before you question us, you should know that there isn't a lawyer present and Raina and I are seventeen. And neither of us here are English citizens." Stone, unwavering stone hung in Amelie Perrin's tone. Her brown eyes dared Jiya to try her. The other girls shared her sentiment, straightening in their seats, chins lifted daringly.
Jiya's smile was small. "I'm Detective Jiya Deepak. I'm just here to figure out what exactly has happened tonight. I completely understand your loyalty to your dorm mate."
Amelie looked ready to interject again. Jiya respected that— she did. Teenage girls truly were a remarkable species.
"But this is not an investigation, ladies. We're simply having a conversation." Jiya folded her hands in front of her on the table.
Amelie did not look very trusting. None of them did. "Then, talk," she spat.
Jiya tried to remember what it was like to be a teenage girl. This school brought back the nostalgic feeling of being willing to do anything for the girls she shared a dorm with, her sisters more than anything. There was something reckless about it— something dangerous and wild.
It was a dangerous thing to be a teenager. It was a dangerous thing to be wealthy. It was danger that lurked around these girls.
It was like danger had sunken her claws into their group and left her mark.
Jiya cleared her throat and looked over her shoulder at the waiting officer. The woman cast a wary glance at the girls as she walked over, holding out a tablet to Jiya.
The girls returned the look, all narrowed eyes and pursed lips.
As Jiya waited for the files to load, she traced her eyes to Juliet. Amelie was quite clearly the mastermind behind this stance of theirs— the unbreakable wall of teenage might that they'd forged. But there were still tears staining Juliet's cheeks and Raina al Hassan still looked prepared to jump from her seat at a moment's notice.
Teenage might only lasted so long.
They should use their missing friend as an example of this, thought Jiya.
"Tell me about Freya," she said to Juliet.
Juliet didn't appreciate being singled out. She glanced sideways at Mayella and Amelie. Raina didn't meet anyone's eyes. Jiya decided she'd single out her next, digging at the cracks in their wall.
Finally, Juliet cleared her throat and said, "She's my best friend."
Jiya nodded, fingers tapping at the tabletop. Raina's eyes followed the gesture and her lips pulled into a frown.
"Is everything okay?" Jiya asked the girl.
She shifted in her seat. Burning eyes lifted to Jiya's. "What do you think?"
Jiya leaned back as Raina's unexpectedly hostile stare seared into her skin.
She picked up the tablet as the images loaded. She turned the device to face the girls.
"Tell me about Matthew then," she said.
A picture of Matthew and Freya taken from the latter's Instagram. Jiya slid her finger across the screen. A picture of Matthew taken, walking out of his car on a London street, phone clutched to his ear. This had been sent to the headquarters a month or so ago, a lovely little hard drive full of his pictures with a single note.
A king with no crown.
Someone had handed them the identity of London's most notorious gang leader but until today, they hadn't taken it seriously. After all, he was an eighteen-year-old boy. He came from money. They'd dismissed it as a joke from his wealthy peers. It didn't make any sense.
Jiya was starting to understand that a lot of this story didn't make sense, that they were all missing pieces.
Raina swallowed hard, looking at the image. The last they'd seen him, he'd likely been rolled out on a stretcher, ambulance lights flaring, bleeding to death.
Jiya turned the tablet away from the girls.
Amelie was growling, however. "Listen, ma'am—," she was starting, ready to defend her friends with every tooth and nail.
Jiya held up a hand.
She cut her stare to Mayella. "Your date. His name is Grayson Winchester, is it?"
Mayella glowered. "Yes."
"Are you aware that he has a record?"
"Yes."
"Where is he, Mayella?"
Amelie cut in. Mayella's eyes tore Jiya to shreds. The blonde's lips were snarling. "We're not answering anymore of your questions. That'll be all. Conversation, my ass."
Jiya looked across at Amelie. "I just want to know one thing. Tell me, why did she shoot him?"
Amelie Perrin fell back onto her chair, eyes dancing with distaste. She smiled. It was not pleasant. It was mean, it was rebellious, it was such a teenage thing. "She shot him because she loves him," snapped Amelie
Jiya sighed, clicking off the tablet and standing.
She turned away from the girls and said to the waiting officer, "We won't be getting anything from them."
✦ ✦ ✦
THE DETECTIVES HAD LET THEM GO. Amelie did not feel like she would breathe anytime soon, however.
All she saw behind her eyes was the glare of flashing ambulance lights, the red of Matthew's blood, staining the white front of his shirt, his gold eyes fluttering closed and Freya, screaming, screaming like death was coming for her.
She did not stop crying, even as they pulled him onto a stretcher and began applying pressure to the bleeding bullet wound. She'd cried as they took him from her hold, her shaking hands stained red. She'd cried as he was driven off in an ambulance. Amelie had almost expected Freya to run after the vehicle. But no, she'd fallen to her knees on the cobblestone ground of the campus, her never-ending blue gown red with blood on the floor, her head and shoulders shaking.
Amelie had made to rush to Freya's side, to pull her friend off the ground as the students of Arrowsmith whispered in shocked tones. Their ice princess was on her knees. Their ice princess was covered in Matthew al Nassar's blood.
But Amelie wasn't thinking about the ice princess of Ebony House as she rushed to Freya. She was thinking about her best friend.
But Karsyn beat her to it. The older Arsov dropping to the floor before his sister, taking her by the shoulders. Amelie stepped forward, drawing his attention as he glanced at her over his sister's shoulder. Karsyn's eyes burned her skin.
Liar.
Then, they were gone from her, back on Freya. Freya, who would not stop crying.
At last, Karsyn heaved to his feet, dragging the girl with broken glass in her eyes with him. He'd pulled his sister before all the eyes of Arrowsmith toward one of the ambulances that had come.
"Get us out of here," he'd snapped to the paramedic, a strand of platinum hair falling across his brow. But he didn't have any of his messy charm about him then. No, that careless piece of hair fell across dangerous eyes.
He was Karsyn Arsov, the heir to Arsov Enterprises, the son of a British noble, brother to their very own ice princess. He was not her Karsyn. Amelie wondered if he'd ever been. She most certainly never deserved him. All she'd ever done was lie to him.
And when the paramedic made to object, their wary gaze tracing over Freya and the ghost of a gun in her hand, he'd barked, "Do you know who I am?"
The paramedic had shrunken away. Amelie had held her breath as they nodded once, accepted Freya's trembling body and pulled her into the ambulance. Karsyn did not spare her a look as he stepped in behind his sister, the doors shutting and the sirens flaring as they left the compound, leaving Amelie to deal with the aftermath.
And the aftermath was this.
The majority of the student body had been cleared away. Arrowsmith felt like a ghost town. She knew if she walked back to the front of the campus, she'd find flashing police lights, the sharp eyes of Inspector Jiya Deepak, perhaps Raina, Juliet and Maye, who she'd left in the library in her hurry to get out of there. Amelie wanted to find none of them.
She wasn't sure why her feet pulled her to the dark, empty shell of a building. The chapel was one of the oldest buildings in Arrowsmith, stained glass windows and tall ceilings, rows upon rows of benches and the fading scent of burning incense from beginning and end of term mass never quite fading from the space.
Amelie was not a very religious person. Of course, she would go to church with her aunt on Christmas. She'd passed Saint-Eustace during her summer in Paris several times and had never once wanted to step foot inside. She'd often envied Raina's conviction in her faith, how she always knew that God was with her.
But tonight, Amelie had to have faith. She didn't have anything else.
She didn't think she would ever forget the sound of Freya's screams.
Grayson had appeared when the ambulance had still been on its way. Amelie had watched his face contort when he saw Matthew on the ground. She and Maye had shared a look and collectively, they'd hauled the muscled man away. They'd shoved him into Matthew's car, told him it was not safe for him here. He'd driven off with tears pouring down his face. Maye too had tears in her eyes as she watched him go, hands shaking at her sides. Amelie was the only one who hadn't cried for the night.
She pushed past the wooden doors of the chapel, it's groan and echo resounding in her bones. Amelie collapsed onto the first bench, the one at the very back of the chapel.
She wondered, if she'd simply attended last term's end of year mass, if she'd never stumbled into bed with Karsyn, never had anything to regret so much that she'd ghost her friend for two months, making Freya so lonely, so hurt that she'd set off on this dangerous quest of revenge— would any of this had happened?
Amelie knew she couldn't wholly be blamed. She knew she was being hysterical.
Kirova was responsible. He'd set this all up. It was his name Horseface had called in the ballroom, his facility that Freya had been locked in, his hand that had assembled all the pieces on the board.
Still, she could not help the guilt, the burn of Karsyn's eyes, the pitch of Freya's scream, the bullet flying, Matthew falling.
Amelie Perrin closed her eyes.
She hadn't liked Matthew. She'd felt he'd held out a hand to Freya, pulled her down the twisted path that she'd wandered onto this summer. But she knew better now, she knew that no one controlled Freya— no one except the man who'd put a gun in her hands. And that Matthew had held out a hand to her, yes, but his had been the hand that Freya had taken to stop her fall.
But now, Matthew had fallen. She'd watched him fall, knees crashing onto the grass, blood wetting his shirt, expression morphed from shock, to pain, to acceptance all in a matter of seconds.
Amelie held a shaking hand to her lips, tears slipping down her cheeks, and she prayed for Matthew al Nassar's life.
✦ ✦ ✦
THE DEVIL WAS SITTING AT THE BAR BUT HE DID NOT DRINK.
The gilded bar of the Jabir Regency was quiet as Lottie Sheridan filed in. All eyes were fixed on the glowing screen of the television, showing brick walls and red and blue lights and the brief glimpse of a pale-haired with glassy eyes, devastation wreaking havoc across her face. All eyes but one watched Freya Arsov.
Lottie was not looking at the telly. She was looking at Andre Kirova, in his suit cut from navy blue, his lips holding a barely-concealed smile as he surveyed the wreckage that he'd caused.
Lottie slid onto the barstool beside him, the glint of her dangling silvery earrings drawing his attention. But she didn't look at him as she ordered, "Whisky." In honour of Matthew, whose blood flashed across the television screen on the lawn of the school, yellow tape blocking the scene.
Only when her drink was in her hand did Lottie lift her eyes to the man.
"I must say, I was surprised to see you at that card table, Charlotte," Kirova spoke first, unbothered by her appearance, his brows lifted, eyes appraising. She willed herself not to bristle.
It was true, Charlotte had snuck her way into that game. The Coilers were a small gang in this city, there was no way they'd end up at such a high-stakes table with just their luck. And Charlotte had wanted to be at that table. Not for the shares in Bale's company, though it wouldn't have hurt— her father had taught her how to play Spades and how to win, after all. But she'd wanted to finally set eyes on the Devil, she'd wanted to watch his hand, she'd wanted to learn his tricks.
She was a curious creature by nature. She considered her prey before she pounced. The golden snake at her neck and her shared this trait.
Andre Kirova, to her, was a man who represented everything wrong with their world. He was shoot first, ask questions later.
He would rather drag obedience from the lips of a corpse than earn it. He stripped souls down to its dregs. He killed and he stole and he broke and he did not apologise. There was no justice to be demanded of him— so what was the harm?
After finding out about how he'd played her in the kidnapping of Freya, she'd been angry. Lottie was not just some pawn on a board, especially not to some rich Russian who came into her city and bent all the rules.
And now, she was livid.
"Though, I don't imagine I was as surprised as you were disappointed that I didn't stay to play," he smiled a knowing thing at her. His dark slicked-back hair made him look villainous. He spoke with a timbre reserved for angels but he was the Devil himself.
Lottie cast her eyes to the television, where a news reporter now stood in the middle of a dark field. There was caution tape everywhere. Lights flashing in the background. A grim-faced detective with bronzed skin walking across the lawn. It was chaos.
He held a finger to his lips as the footage returned to the detective. She was not smiling as she walked across the campus. "Ah, Jiya," he muttered to himself. "You are still beautiful."
He may not have stayed to play Spades but he'd played the other game. And he must be delighted with himself in wake of all the torment, all that blood, feeling like a winner.
It was then that Charlotte deftly pulled the gun from the little silken bag she'd walked in with.
For a moment, no one breathed, neither her, nor Andre. The gun dug silently into his leg just below the bar's counter, concealed from prying eyes.
She cocked her head at the man. "You know how this goes. A bullet in your femoral. You bleed out in seven minutes."
Kirova mimicked her, tilting his head, absolutely at ease with the gun. He was amused.
"Surely," spoke the man, "enough blood has been spilled this night."
Lottie dug the gun into his flesh at that. She was not bluffing. Her hate was a roar in her chest.
Kirova glanced down at the gun then back up again. Placatingly, he said, "At least, tell me, before you kill me, what I have done to spark your ire?"
Lottie almost laughed.
"Is this about Alexei?" Kirova ventured.
Charlotte had not spoken about the green-eyed boy since lunch with Freya Arsov. Now, it seemed both of them were ghosts.
"I was surprised to find that you'd taken him in. That wasn't very smart."
"Smart?" echoed Lottie in a whisper, gun in hand. "Smart would be for me to kill you now and end this cycle of violence."
Kirova sported a considerate look upon his face. "Cycle, you say," he murmured. "What a fitting word."
He turned over his shoulder to glance at the school campus on the television. "You know, I went to school there, many years ago."
"I was nothing but a poor man's son amongst all that wealth. Aleksander Arsov, may he rest in peace, had taken me in as his ward and sent me there with his son to pursue higher education." A smile. "Nikolai and I grew up as brothers. We were inseparable."
"I was there when he fell for the English lord's daughter. I was there when he wed her in a small church in Novgorod. After all, we were inseparable." He traced his fingers along the bar casually as though there was not a gun aiming for his life. "Then, the boy came— the first one. Karsyn. He was a wild thing, running and screaming around Westshire Hall, making his poor babushka place a hand to her heart and mutter about the English and their lack of behaviour. But he was her husband's heir and she loved him accordingly— that much could not be said for me, you see— I was her husband's ward and nothing more."
Charlotte's lips curled. "So, you kill people because your mummy didn't love you?" But she was listening. She was, after all, a girl who liked to know things.
"It did not matter what Lizaveta Arsova thought of me," growled Kirova in response. It was the first time he'd looked even remotely angry since Lottie had pressed a gun to his leg. "As I said, Nikolai and I were brothers. His father died a year after Karsyn was born and the empire fell onto him. My friend never wanted it, of course. The world of business was bland to him. Which was why I'd been set to stand by him, to help him." Kirova's eyes became hard and dark. "And I helped him I did. Nikolai— who never attended meetings in his shiny London tower, who let his secretaries take seventeen breaks a day— I helped him."
Charlotte watched fury pool from the man in acidic waves. It was a wonder she was not choking on it. It was a wonder she had not pulled the trigger. The shot would be silent. The bullet would go in and the blood would flow and she'd be gone.
"Let me guess," chuckled Lottie instead, "he betrayed you."
Kirova's dark eyes flared. "The company had been facing fallout from his father's stance against the Soviet Union since the 80's. The people were upset with the family. They said, Of course, the billionaire would not be affected by the woes of the working people. They were right, of course. When the Union disbanded, many lost their jobs, they lost their financial stability, and here was Aleksander Arsov, standing in his palatial Arsovya House in Moscow, telling them that it was good that the Union was done. He'd profited from it and now he was letting it burn. And then, Nikolai married the Englishwoman."
"Love," he smiled. "It is a dangerous thing."
Lottie wondered if a man like Kirova even knew what love was.
It was only hate that touched his face as he went on, "The Arsov dynasty could have fallen in Russia that year. The homeland stood against them. There was a riot outside the Arsov headquarters in Moscow. Molotov cocktails were flying. They would have burnt that building to the ground, stormed the safe and taken whatever was inside. Nikolai was in London. In the new shiny tower that had finished the year before. It was I who had to guard his castle. It was I who had to save it. But when he found out that I had struck a deal with the Bratva guns do it, he was outraged."
Kirova laughed. "Arsov Enterprises is a legal company, Andrei," Kirova quoted, amusement tinging his eyes. "There is nothing legal about sitting in a mansion while your people starve and we both knew it. He was a hypocrite. Like his father. Like his mother. He was not my brother."
Lottie tried to imagine the events that had led here, tried to understand. It was a common tale. Billionaires and crime and guns and gangs and love and family.
Still, Kirova was the villain in this story. Lottie pursed her lips spitefully. "Is that why you did it? You took your anger out on a child?"
"I was always kind to Alexei, girl," he warned, bristling. "I raised him like he was my own."
"You stole him from his bed." Anakin Graves walked with ghosts who he'd never known following after him.
Kirova glowered at her words. "When the twins were born, I flew to England. I had to stop a cycle, as you say." Lottie's hand tightened on the gun.
"Alexei, named for his grandfather and Freya, named for her grandmother," hummed Kirova.
"One would betray the other, this I knew. It was in their blood, in their father's blood. It did not matter which I took, so long as Nikolai did not get to spew his lies at their feet. It could have easily been the girl." Kirova shook his head. "Nikolai did not call me brother when he threw me from his home and Freya would have done the same for Anakin, or him to her." He looked like a mad man.
Lottie shook her head. "You took him from his family."
"I was his family," snarled Kirova. "I gave him a home. I saved him from that poison. And yet, he turned on me. He would seek to have me shot. He would try to undo my plans right from under me. I have learnt that the poison is in their blood. After all, Freya Arsova betrayed herself when she bought drugs off the street in Moscow— she enjoys the poison. I was only trying to help. But I now know, I cannot help any Arsov."
"And neither can you, foolish girl," went Kirova, reaching down and grabbing Lottie's hand on the gun. "This is what it is, is it not? Family separation? It is what made you come here, what made you take Alexei in."
Lottie yanked her hand away but she swallowed hard. "The man who killed my father is a lot like you, yes." Shoot first, ask questions later.
Still, Lottie realised what she was doing, hand on a gun. Hate had clogged her veins. But she was not someone who shot someone in the middle of a bar. She was not someone who kidnapped girls off of streets. She was better.
Her hand uncurled from the gun and she slipped it back into her bag.
Charlotte lifted her eyes to the Devil. She wondered what it was like to be so hollow.
"She will come for you for this," warned Lottie. "She will learn the truth."
Kirova actually laughed. "Who? Freya Arsova?" He shook his head. "I have broken her."
It was true, the girl on the news was all glass shards shattered on tile, sharp edges stained bloody. But Lottie had been that way once before.
Men had a habit of underestimating broken women.
And Lottie would never underestimate Freya Arsov again, not after she'd felt the song of death strum from her lips as she held a knife to her throat.
"You should have had two bullets fired," said Lottie. "One for her and one for him. Because she will come after you. For him. For her brother who you stole. For all your sins. You should start praying, Kirova."
With that, Charlotte finished the whisky in her glass, stood and walked away from Andre Kirova.
The Devil would get his due.
✦ ✦ ✦
THERE WAS A SONG THAT HER BABKA PLAYED OFTEN to Freya when she came to visit the hollow halls of Westshire Hall. Freya had never liked it. It was mournful, slow and in Russian. Then, Lizaveta had informed Freya that it was actually a love song.
She'd wanted to know why, then, did it make tears spring to her eyes.
She'd never wanted to cry when she was around Jules, or Karsyn, or Atalanta. Why did this Russian song of love make her chest ache? Love was not ache.
But Freya understood tonight.
Her brain did not wrap around the words of the song as she sat in the back of the ambulance. Her brain didn't wrap around any word other than his name.
And her heart carried it, even if his name was pulling the chambers of her heart open and leaving nothing but ache in its wake.
Karsyn was talking to her in the back of the ambulance but she didn't answer, didn't really hear. Someone had shone a light in her eyes. She didn't even notice it's glare.
There was blood on her hands. His blood had been hot as it touched her hands. But his fingers had been cold as they pulled him away.
When the ambulance stopped, Freya became aware that she had limbs. She remembered that she was more than just a bleeding heart.
She flew to her feet and out the door before anyone could stop her.
Karsyn was quick on her heels, a curse lifting from his lips.
Freya's ballgown dragged on the white tiled floors of the hospital's emergency room. All eyes pulled to her, at the picture of blood and diamonds that she painted.
She didn't look to any of them. She was looking for him. But he wasn't here— of course, he wasn't here. They'd pulled him away. They were cutting him open. He was bleeding. She could feel it. She'd felt the bullet hit him, she'd felt every drop of blood that had left him. His heart and hers, it was the same.
Karsyn arrived at her side. He tried to touch her but Freya jerked away like a wounded animal.
Her brother's eyes were overflowing with worry as he lowered his hand. He wasn't sure what to say to her. There was nothing anyone could say to her.
The words of the song returned to her.
It is hard to express and hard to hold back everything in my heart.
Her heart was a violent pound in her chest. She knew what it was saying though.
Matthew. Matthew. Matthew.
I wanted the world with you.
Don't leave me here.
She was cold. The night's chill leaking into the emergency room and into her bones. She was freezing to death while he was bleeding to death.
A pair of emerald eyes sailed in front of her. Freya wanted to step around Jules. She wanted to find him.
"Freya—," Jules started. They'd thrown a blanket over his shoulders. His lip was bleeding.
Freya had forgotten that she had a name.
Freya. Freya. Freya.
But she didn't want to be Freya without him. Where was he? She had to go there. Her eyes pulled along the white walls, along the lab coats that still made her stomach turn, along the nurses and gurneys. She was expecting him to walk around the corridor and smile. It was all a dream, princess. Now, let's go home.
Home. He was her home.
The walls were crumbling down on her head.
"Anakin Graves was in the woods with me at first. He tried to—," Jules was saying to her but she wasn't listening to him. He tried to stop it, Jules was going to say but has halted his words. "Anyway, I didn't tell them about him. I didn't think you wanted me to."
Freya didn't care.
Jules was frowning at her. Karsyn was frowning at her.
"Mum is on her way, Freya," said Karsyn. Freya didn't care. "The police will want to question you eventually." Her lawyer was on the way, not her mother.
Jules' eyes flashed at this information. He reached out a hand and grasped Karsyn's arm, looking between the siblings. "I— did you know that Graves' name is Alexei?"
She didn't stay to hear Karsyn's reply.
Nothing mattered.
Not Anakin Graves. Not Andre Kirova. Not her mother. Not the detectives. Not the police. Nothing mattered but him.
Freya's breath caught in her throat when she caught the familiar flash of ink on the back of Grayson's hand and then she was flying, a sob spearing past her lips.
She flew across the emergency room, toward Grayson who was standing with his back to her, facing the pair of double doors that they must have taken him through. Grayson turned just in time, eyes widening. He grabbed her just before she could fly through the doors.
"No," he said, holding Freya back with ease though his eyes danced with strain. "You can't go there, Freya."
His eyes were silver-lined and red. He'd been crying. His hands were tight on her shoulders. But Freya pounded her bloody fists against his chest anyway, a wild creature unleashed.
"Let me go," she snarled. "Let me go."
"You can't do anything in there," he told her.
Freya was crying, aching things pulling past her lips, clawing her lungs to bits and leaving her heart in bloody ribbons at her feet.
"Let me go," she cried. "I need to go." Her fists struck Grayson three more times before she gave up, shaking and wild-eyed. She was bleeding to death with him. She could not find the wound but she felt it, felt her fight draining with his.
Karsyn and Jules were approaching now. She could hear her name in their mouths.
Gray held her back, his tears sliding down his face fully now. Matthew was his brother. Tell Gray I love him.
Freya sobbed.
Grayson surveyed her. "Why did you do it, Freya?"
She shook her head once, tears blurring her vision, and threw herself from his grasp.
"It wasn't me." A choked thing broke from her lips. "I didn't shoot him. It wasn't me."
But it didn't matter.
She had been going to. Her finger had been on the trigger, his heart in her other hand.
He'd given her his heart and asked her to take care of it. It didn't matter that she hadn't fired the bullet that had struck him. He'd fallen anyway.
She'd put his name on a bullet the moment she'd pressed her lips to his.
And she was a fool to think that him loving her would be anything short of bloody. She was wrong. But she would learn.
Love was not bulletproof.
✦ ✦ ✦
END
OF
BULLETPROOF
HEARTS