Starlet: A Dark Retelling - Cora Kenborn Page 0,112
sit across from her. “Angel, we need to talk.”
“Alexandra,” she says, not bothering to look at me.
“Right,” I start again, tugging my fingers through my hair. “Alexandra, there are some things you need to know. Things I haven’t told you because I didn’t know if you could handle hearing them.”
“Nothing you could say can shock me now. I’m the only surviving member of the Romanov family. A family I can’t even remember because my brain turned off. I’m Russian, did you know that?” She lets out a humorless laugh. “Of course, you did.”
“So, you don’t remember anything?”
She lifts one shoulder in a lethargic shrug. “I have flashes of things every so often. I thought they were dreams. Night terrors, day terrors, voices, male and female,” she lists, the cadence of her voice almost melodic. “But nothing I can put together. I forget everything when I wake up.” There’s an abrupt pause, and her fingers grip the sides of the chair. “Except…”
“Except?”
“Six,” she whispers, as if the word is blasphemous.
I blow out a harsh breath. “Six.”
She nods, now sitting straight up. “When I get scared, I count. But it’s only to five. If it’s ever any more, I always pass over six.” Her shoulders sag, and she picks at a loose thread on her shirt. “I don’t know why.”
She doesn’t, but I do. But even if I cut open every vein I have just to bleed the truth at her feet, I’m not sure she’d believe me. So, I do the unthinkable. The cruelest thing a man could do to the woman he loves.
I drag her into her own nightmare.
“Why are you counting, little girl?” I say in a low, controlled tone.
Angel’s head snaps up, and her eyes glaze over. Physically, she’s right here on this balcony, but my Angel—my little Alexandra—she’s locked away in her own mind. Tucked between a dresser and a bed inside a room in the east wing.
“Because I’m scared of six,” she whispers, closing her eyes like she’s afraid I’ll laugh at her.
Only I don’t laugh. Nothing’s funny about this.
“One. Two. Three. Four. Five.”
She counts my footsteps as I rise and stand in front of her.
Kneeling, I cover her hands with mine. “Look at me.”
So, she does, opening her eyes, not because I ask her to, but because she has no choice.
Her lip quivers. “Fate always finds a way.”
Hunching down, I brush my thumb across the bandage on her wrist. “You’ll never have to count again.”
I know she believes me because a soft breath escapes her lips just before she presses them against the back of my hand. The kiss is innocent, but both of us go completely still.
Looking back on it now, I know it was that moment that sealed our fates. It permanently entwined our lives, the roots grounding us to this spot. This house. This life. It was the hope shining in those earthy green eyes and the pain simmering just below the surface.
I rescued her from one cage only to lock her inside another.
“Are you God?” she asks quietly.
My heart stutters as I offer a regretful smile. “No. I’m the Angel of Death.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Dominic
Fifteen Years Ago
My knees bounce as Joey turns off the ignition and kills the lights. I have a bad feeling about this. Real bad. Jobs like this are never easy. Even the best laid plans always come with surprises. That’s why Luciano sent me instead of one of his usual soldiers. I may only be seventeen, but I’ve gained more trust in two years than men who’ve licked Marco and Luciano’s designer shoes for twenty.
“Will you stop jumping around?” He slams the magazine into his gun. “Jesus, you gonna walk up there and ring the doorbell, too?”
“Let’s just get this over with.” My eyes draw back to the house. I try to forget it’s Christmas Eve. Try to forget I know Nicholas and Katerina Romanov have five kids. Five kids who won’t have parents soon. The thought hits hard in my chest, burning so deep I almost lose my breath.
My hand tightens around my gun, irritated at whatever the hell has got me so twisted up. I never hesitate on a job. Luciano counts on me to keep conscience out of business. It’s easy because I have no conscience. I’m a machine.
Point. Aim. Fire. Leave.
If you fucked up enough to end up on Luciano’s list, it’s not my place or concern to question why. That’s what makes me good. No, fuck that—the best.