Nadia stared daggers at me. “I should have known you would be just like your mother.”
She caught a glint of uncertainty in my eyes and laughed. “You do not know about your dear ol’ mother?”
“Zatknis’,” Ronan growled at her. Shut up.
“No,” I returned. “I want to hear what she has to say.”
Nadia raised an amused brow. “Where does one even start?”
As Ronan turned to carry me out of the room, a volcano erupted in my chest at the unanswered questions and the need to know the truth. I struggled violently, cursed him, and when I told him to never touch me again, he finally released me.
Nadia watched the scene with a venomous expression and finally turned her gaze to mine. “Should I start with the bad news or the slightly less bad news?”
“Just spit it out, Nadia,” Ronan snapped.
“Well . . .” She looked at her nails. “There was that rumor Tatianna was a whore who liked it rough. And when I say ‘rough,’ I mean like knives and animals involved.” She scrunched her nose. “But I suppose what she is really known for is what she did for your papa. She saw a cute girl on the street, charmed her into her Bugatti and—poof!—the girl was never seen again.”
I stared at her. My heart raced, but my mind was numb.
“Those are the rumors . . . though they do say in every rumor there is a grain of truth.” Nadia feigned a sympathetic look. “Unfortunately, in your mother’s case, there was an entire grain bin of truth.”
My papa trafficked girls.
And my mother had helped him.
It felt like the room was spinning while I tried to process the news. I needed space. Now.
Ronan turned me to face him and wiped some porridge from my cheek. I couldn’t do this. I just couldn’t. Though trying to pull free from his grip turned out to be as futile as always.
“Tell me you are okay,” he demanded.
“I’m okay. Now, please . . . let me go.”
It looked like he was about to deny the request, but something in my eyes must have changed his mind. He tipped up my chin and gave me a short, sweet kiss on the lips—ignoring Nadia’s outraged, “ARGH!”—before he let me slip through his fingers.
Moving on autopilot, I climbed the stairs, catching pieces of the fuzzy background noise.
“I missed you,” Nadia whined.
“This is the last time I will see you,” Ronan growled. “Or I swear to God, your career will disappear in front of your eyes.”
“But—”
“But no. Get the fuck out of my house, Nadia. And find a therapist, for Christ’s sake.”
“I do not need a FUCKING therapist!”
A few moments later, I sat naked on the shower floor letting the water wash over me. Alone. The word was a monster tha
t would consume me someday. It wasn’t until Yulia kneeled beside me and washed me like a child that the tears began to fall—while I mourned the loss of the papa I thought I knew . . . and his executioner.
que sera sera
(prov.) what will be, will be
“Maybe I could backpack across Europe,” I announced.
Head resting on his paws, Khaos looked unimpressed with the idea. I’d snuck him in through the back door and up to my room. If this was my last night here, I didn’t want to spend it alone. Khaos had secured a decent chunk of my bed and was already shedding everywhere. I loved it.