Victoria and I would never go to prison, at least, not for the Brotherhood’s crimes, but death could come to us at any moment.
Just like Mama.
Raped and slain in her own house.
Fuck, I hated this property.
I’d never understood how, when my father proclaimed to love her so much, he could stay here. Had never understood how he allowed his daughters to remain in the residence where such tragedy had happened...
It was one of the many reasons I loathed him.
Why, one day, if he wasn’t careful, I’d be the one to eliminate him as easily as it was hitting backspace on a keyboard.
Palms growing sweaty with a cocktail of nerves and wishful thinking that it’d be so easy to get rid of him when it was anything but, I reached up and tugged on the star pendant I’d purloined from my father’s safe when I’d stolen one of my mother’s necklaces for my sister, Inessa.
“What’s that?” Victoria asked, stepping into my dressing room and not stopping until she could lean over and peer at the pendant. “I remember it. Just not...” Her brow puckered. “I don’t know where I remember it from.”
Of course she would.
She’d been a toddler when Mama died. Would have remembered the tiny star as Mama put her to sleep or played with her.
But I didn’t tell her that, nor the thought processes that had led me to a conclusion that was beyond unpalatable.
“It’s something I bought myself the other day. Isn’t it pretty?”
Victoria’s frown only deepened. “Did Mama wear something like that?”
“I don’t remember,” I lied, and I reached for her hand and tugged on it. “Come riding with me?” I asked, by way of a distraction.
Victoria was not the world’s most natural equestrian. If anything, she was terrified of horses, and they sensed that fear like they were starving predators, not man’s best friend.
And yes, horses were so much more man’s best friend than dogs.
Horses were life.
As expected, she staggered back, slipping on this morning’s edition of the New York Times, her fingers forming the sign of the cross like I needed exorcising. I grinned at her as she scampered away without another word.
I sucked in a relieved breath for her questions to have scampered away too, then leaned over to grab the paper. I’d already done this morning’s crossword which was why it was on the floor, but I could imagine me slipping on it next.
The last thing I needed was a concussion because I’d banged my head on the bed frame—that would be just my luck. I’d end up married off to my worst enemy while I was unconscious or something. Father was, after all, an opportunist.
Shuddering at the thought, I turned to face myself in the mirror.
My appearance wasn’t satisfactory, but then, it never was.
Even after I’d had surgery, and my tits were bigger than before, I wasn’t happy with them. I still felt flat-chested, and I knew that I probably always would feel that way. Just like I’d never feel pretty. Just like I knew I could get addicted to surgery, to make-up, to everything that was false in an effort to shore up a self-esteem that had been dumped in the Hudson years ago.
The only thing that had saved me from getting addicted to going under the knife was my empty bank account. I’d hoarded every cent to get the money together, and when I’d found myself in dire straits later on, I’d regretted how much money I’d wasted on my appearance.
With or without them, everyone else might look at me and see an ice princess, delicate features, a pretty face, long, silken blonde hair, and a body that would make a pin-up envious, but I saw...
I swallowed.
A hag.
A walking vagina.
A womb that my father had repeatedly tried to sell.