I’m not a queen. I don’t think I ever was.
I’m just a tool, a means to gain power.
Shock stabs my gut, making my knees knock together. I’ve been staring at Willow for a few minutes, but I’ve just registered her expression.
Instead of support or sympathy, all I see is fear and apprehension. She can’t comfort me.
Because she’s afraid of me.
A hand lands on my shoulder, shaking me out of my fit. I turn tentatively to my husband’s neutral face, his fingers lighter than air on my arm. Though a hint of concern passes through his eyes, it disappears as if it never existed.
Did he ever worry about my health? Or is it just about the baby now?
Pavel offers me a small can of ginger ale. “Drink.”
“Where…What are they…What are they going to…?”
“His body will be processed.”
My lips tremble as I struggle to pull the tab on the can. I don’t even want it. My tongue is swollen and my throat is dry. Adding carbonated liquid will just be a recipe for disaster. But I’m trying to dosomethingwith my hands to keep from hitting the ground.
Or screaming again.
Pavel pops the tab and reinforces my fingers around the can.
Processed.
The word flashes through my mind as brightly as the gun going off. All those crime shows stroll through my brain with the word.
The body will be processed.
I’m shaking when I finally raise the can to my lips, managing to blurt, “How?”
Pavel looks surprised for a second. But then his features shift back to neutral. “Kostya will remove his fingers, teeth, and any other identifying marks.”
“Marks?”
His eyes drop to my shoulder briefly before he responds, “Tattoos. Piercings.”
“He didn’t have any—”
“That you know of.”
I sip from the can, cool liquid washing over my tongue and spilling into my stomach. The carbonated bubbles burn my throat. While the taste is bland, the act of drinking grounds me further in my body.
My vessel. My prison.
I touch my stomach.
Why couldn’t I stay floating above everything? Standing here is too dramatic. It’s easier to be detached.
God, this is my life now.
My lips move of their own accord: “And then?”
“Kostya will cut the body into small pieces and dump them in various places.”
“Around New York?”