Page 92 of Terror at the Gates

I winced.

“I’m not saying Lisk doesn’t deserve your hate,” Zahariev said. His voice was quieter this time. “But your rage belongs somewhere else, and I want to make sure you unleash it on the person who deserves it most.”

My eyes were watering again. God, I fucking hated this.

I cleared my throat. “I just want to know what happened.”

“That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

I glanced at Zahariev as he made his way into the living room, pausing to look at something on the floor. I assumed it was Esther’s blood and promptly turned my attention to the kitchen, crossing to where Esther kept her tea. I started opening containers, looking for any sign they had been tampered with, but found nothing like the substance on the mug.

When I was finished with the tea, I decided to go through the entire kitchen. I searched every cabinet and drawer, opened every labeled and unlabeled jar to smell what was inside. Esther liked to can things, especially different kinds of pickles. By the time I was finished opening them, my hand hurt, and all I could smell was vinegar.

“You’re going to give yourself a headache,” said Zahariev.

I turned to see him leaving Esther and Gabriel’s room, and I realized he had been in the bathroom. He looked alittle pale, and his eyes had changed. At least his gaze felt different to me. Maybe now he understood why I was a little more unhinged than usual.

“I’ve had one since yesterday,” I said.

Zahariev frowned, but he also looked a little frustrated. “You need to rest like Dr. Mor told you to do in the first place,” he said. “I can do…whatever it is you’re doing.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “I’m not leaving any room for doubt.”

It was bad enough that the doctor at the hospital implied Esther had done this to herself. At least I could say with certainty I’d searched the house and found nothing like the substance in her mug.

“Did you check the medicine cabinet?” I asked.

“Lilith,” Zahariev said, a note of disapproval in his voice.

You saw the bathroom, I wanted to say.Why can’t you understand why I need to do this?

“I’ll check,” I said, leaving the kitchen, but Zahariev cut me off. I tried to step past him, but he wouldn’t let me.

“Zahariev,” I snapped.

“You don’t need to check,” he said. “Because you aren’t going to find anything. All you’re going to do is retraumatize yourself.”

“You just offered to help,” I said. “And now you’re being a jerk.”

“I’m not being a jerk,” he said.

I started to shove him out of the way when he moved, slipping his arms around my waist and lifting me off the ground.

“Zahariev!” I wrapped my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist. It was instinctual, my body’s response to feeling like he was going to drop me. He didn’t. Instead, his hands shifted beneath my thighs ashe carried me, planting my ass on the dining room table.

“You don’t fucking listen,” he said.

“You don’t fucking listen!” I tried pushing him away again, but he basically welded my hands to my thighs with his grip. So I tried to kick him, but I wasn’t very successful considering he was standing between my legs.

“Are you done?” he asked. His jaw was tight, his masseters popping.

I glared up at him. He was already over a foot taller than me, but sitting beneath his frustrated gaze made me feel like a kid.

“I’m not a fucking child, Zahariev,” I snapped.

“Then why are you acting like one?” he asked.

His words felt like a slap to the face. I physically recoiled. Zahariev didn’t even blink. I jerked my hands free and crossed them over my chest, averting my gaze as I tried to keep myself from crying again.