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Chapter Thirteen

Knova

I can tell that Julie’s been dodging my calls, so when I still don’t get a reply from her, I cheat and call her from the phone at work.

She answers on the third ring. “Julie speaking.”

I lean back on the good chair in the break room. “Julie. So nice to hear your voice and not a prerecorded message.”

“Knova.” Is that guilt I detect in her voice? “Sorry I haven’t had a chance to call you back. I assume this is about—”

“The annulment.” I open a fun-size bag of cheese puffs. “Where are we with that?”

“Oh, it’s… coming along.”

I groan and let my head roll back. “Why was getting married so easy and getting out of it impossible?”

I toss a cheese puff into my mouth and chew like I’m mad at it. Marriage was supposed to be a joke. A headline. A hangover story.

Not… this thing that lives in my chest like a second heartbeat.

Julie sounds almost sympathetic. “You know how paperwork is. There’s a backup at the Clark County government center. Even Dante’s billions can’t grease the wheels.”

“Way to remind me that your husband’s loaded,” I grumble.

“So is yours,” Julie replies, deadpan. Goddammit, she and Dante deserve each other.

I grit my teeth. She means well—probably—but it feels like a slap. Like I’m some spoiled rich wife when I’m not a wife at all. Not in the way that she is.

“For now. Once the annulment goes through, it’ll be like this whole nightmare never happened. Can you at least give me a ballpark? Days? Weeks? Years? Just want to know how long I’ll be dealing with this.”

Julie sighs. “Not right now. I really don’t know.”

As I hang up, though, I wonder how true that is. Viktor and I have always had a complicated relationship, but it’s only going to get more complicated following our annulment. And speaking of which, what happens now that we have, in fact, consummated our relationship?

Was that the death knell or the beginning of something we don’t know how to name yet? The worst part is, I wanted it. I asked for it. I begged for it. And now, I feel like I RSVP’d to my own heartbreak.

There was a minute there where I actually considered giving this relationship a shot. Now I’m not so sure.

* * *

Viktor’s already at home when I arrive. That’s strange enough on its own, given how busy Dante keeps the team. Even when they’re not training or playing, the Venom attends all kinds of fundraisers, community events, galas, and whatever else Dante dreams up.

Even stranger, Viktor is dressed up. Not tuxedo-fancy, but dateworthy. I hate how hot that V-neck looks on him, how it accentuates his pecs and broad shoulders, how the sleeves hug his biceps. His dark jeans draw attention to all the good bits, too.

He’s standing there like a cover model for my worst decisions—chest poured into that shirt, arms looking unfair, hair all mussed like someone ran their fingers through it recently. My stomach flips. Stupid, stupid traitor of a stomach. I hate how good he looks. I hate that I notice how good he looks. I hate that part of me missed him.

“Hey.” He looks up from his phone when he sees me and offers me a smile. He’s lying. I know it. I know that look. It’s the same one every guy wears when they’ve already decided they’re done with you, but won’t say it. “You’re still free tonight, right?”

I kick off my shoe and blurt the first lie that comes to me. “Actually, I have plans with Knight.”

Viktor’s smile turns bemused. “He texted you already?”

Shit. What does that mean? Did the PR gal plan some last-minute Venom event I don’t know about?

Caught in my lie, I backtrack. “Um, yeah. We’re doing that… thing.” Wow, Knova, how convincing. You think he buys it?

Viktor leans closer and wiggles his eyebrows at me. “You can call it what it is, babe.”

Although, of course, I can’t, because I haven’t got the foggiest idea what he’s talking about. “What would you call it?” I challenge.

His shit-eating grin takes up his whole face. “A date. A double date. Or maybe a couple’s party.”

My first instinct is to breathe a sigh of relief. My disturbed mind had conjured vivid images involving my brother’s infamous oversized bathtub. Then the implications of his words sink in. My eye twitches. A few seconds later, it twitches again. Huh, I always assumed that this was just a turn of phrase, but the damn thing’s twitching like crazy.

“What’s wrong?” Viktor shifts on the sofa, making that black shirt of his cling to his chest in a series of increasingly distracting configurations. “It should be fun. We’re bringing the wine, Knight and Sofia already picked up the charcuterie, and they have the supplies. We’re going to paint each other’s portraits.” When I just keep staring and twitching, he adds, “I should warn you, though, that my artistic skills are a little, uh, lacking. So don’t be mad if my picture resembles a Dalí painting. I’ve never been great at drawing eyes. Or noses. Seriously, why are noses so hard? If you just draw the nostrils, it looks like you’re drawing a snake-person, but if you go too hard on the bits in the middle, it looks abstract and freaky—” He runs a fingertip along the ridge of his own nose for emphasis.

“Why would my twin invite us to a couple’s anything?” I demand.

With his finger still pressed to his nose, Viktor gives me a guilty smile. It reminds me of videos people post online after their dogs get into the trash and make a mess but still think they’re cute enough to dodge the consequences of their actions. “So…”

I spin away from him and stomp off to the kitchen. “Dammit! Does an NDA mean nothing to you?”

Viktor trails after me. “You expect me to believe Baylor doesn’t know?”

“That’s because of Dante.” I open the refrigerator in search of something to drink and find a whole box of pamplemousse LaCroix. Viktor knows it’s my favorite, not just because I enjoy the flavor, but because of the name. They could just call it grapefruit, but no, they’re too fancy for that, and so am I. I grab one, even as I swear to myself that I am not going to let Viktor win my good graces back with anything as asinine as a fizzy beverage.

He’s already reaching for one of my favorite mugs. Because he knows I don’t like drinking fizzy water from the can. Because he knows me. I should be grateful. Or touched. Or something other than brimming with resentment that I haven’t figured out how to process. But the fury’s easier to feel. Easier to weaponize. Mother. Fucker. “Dante told Baylor? Dante doesn’t even know Baylor!”

I ignore the mug he offers me and reach for one of my own. “Dante told the masseuses, and they told Baylor.”

Viktor sets the mug on the counter with a frown. “When were there massages? Did you take Baylor to our couple’s massage?”

I pour out my drink. “Let me make it up to you. Maybe you and Baylor should go paint each other’s portraits instead.” The words are already out of my mouth before I can stop them. Petty. Mean. But they hit their mark, and that ugly part of me feels… satisfied. For half a second.

Viktor grips the edge of the counter and takes a few deep breaths. I expect him to get mad, but he mostly seems… hurt. The petty part of me that wanted to hurt him, to get him back for the way he hurt me, is elated. The rest of me is conflicted. If he doesn’t care about me, why is he trying so hard? If he does, then what’s his excuse for not wanting to prioritize me the other day?

“Knova…” He sounds physically pained.

“Forget it.” I take my mug of fizzy water and clutch it close to my chest. “I’m going to unwind and shower, and then we’ll head over to Knight’s.”

The tension lingers between us when we cross the street half an hour later, each carrying a bottle of wine. It looks like he sprung for a decent vintage, and again, what the hell? What’s his game?

Sofia greets us at the front door with big hugs and a knowing smile. Of course, Knight told her. It’s only a matter of time before word gets out, and I have the unpleasant feeling that if I insist on an annulment after the beans are spilled, I’m going to look like the bad guy. Oh, Knova, how could you break that poor boy’s heart! After you burned down a building, too? I swear, I don’t know what’s gotten into you…

“Hey, Knova.” My brother comes bounding into the entryway while Sofia spirits our bottles of wine to the kitchen. “This is going to be so fun, right?”

“Um, sure.” God, this is so awkward. Knight would never wingman for Viktor if he knew that he might have cheated on me, but I’m not psychic enough to beam this information into my brother’s brain.

The painting station is already set up at the kitchen table. It looks like we’ll be working with acrylics, so we can use canvases that are set up on tiny easels. This is a genuinely cute idea, and under other circumstances, I might even be able to enjoy myself, but it feels like ever since Viktor and I got married, he’s become someone else. Someone I don’t know. A familiar face with a stranger behind it.

I’m off kilter.

“I said we should do finger paints, but Sof said that would be too messy.” Knight sits down beside me. Viktor and Sofia sit across from us so that we can look at our partner while we paint. Partner. I wouldn’t mind having a partner. What I do mind is being emotionally manipulated by a man who’s taken me for granted more than once.

Viktor laughs. “Fingerpaints would cater to my skill level, but I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t go well with finger foods.”

“Paint’s safe to eat these days, right?” Knight looks to me for confirmation.

I scoff. “The fact that you’re open to eating paint says a lot about your standards.”

My twin sulks. “Fine, we could eat first and then paint afterward. I’m just saying, finger painting is fun.”

“Watercolors are fun, too!” Sofia insists. “Besides, I know we all have experience with them.”

Viktor grins. “You’re talking about Mrs. Knissen’s class.”

“Our middle school art teacher?” I wrinkle my nose at the memory. “That was forever ago.”

“I really liked her class.” Sofia brings out four wine glasses and a corkscrew. The charcuterie platter is already available. I know Sofia picked it out, because she got the good stuff: capicola, prosciutto, those tasty little pickles, and real cheese, the kind you have to slice. I know my brother. He would have gone for bagged pepperoni slices and meat cubes. Cretin.

“The class was fine,” I say. “But I don’t miss middle school.”

“I miss not having to worry about bills and quarterly taxes,” Viktor quips.

I nod. “That tracks. We both know how you feel about responsibility.”

Sofia and Knight exchange a worried glance over the tops of their canvases. I tell myself to rein it in—my problems shouldn’t ruin their night. Surprise, surprise, Viktor’s doing that kicked-puppy expression again.

I lift my paintbrush. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

The others do the same, though I can tell I’ve already soured the mood. And there it is. That familiar gut punch. The one where I realize I’ve swung too hard, too fast, and now everyone’s bleeding—even the people who had nothing to do with the original wound.

This is the one thing I don’t like about myself: I am completely incapable of keeping my shit on the inside. When I’m in a bad mood, I can feel myself poisoning every interaction, taking everyone else down into my crappy headspace with me. I did a lot of therapy after I left the military, and I thought I’d gotten this under control. Turns out, while I have gotten better at managing some of my darker moods, faking a positive attitude is something I still haven’t mastered.

At least I can make an effort to change the tone of the evening. “How’s your store doing, Sofia?”

“Oh, it’s really good!” She perks up immediately. Talking about her jewelry shop always has this effect. “I’ve started doing beading classes for kids, and it’s so fun! I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to corral a bunch of tweens, so I just make sure that they always come with a parent. I did a big weekend event with a Girl Scout troop a couple of weeks ago, and I’m trying out this daddy-daughter beading class. I only had four groups show up, but it was really sweet watching them create together. And I had a couple of moms tell me that their boys are interested in having a creative space, too, so now it’s kind of snowballing into this whole project that’s a lot less intimidating than I expected…”

Sofia’s enthusiasm lifts the mood of the evening. When Knight starts talking about his idea for a Venom/Bead Bar crossover event, I listen with half an ear, while the rest of my attention is dedicated to my canvas. Or, more accurately, on Viktor.

He’s painting slowly and with obvious care. Every few seconds, his eyes flick toward my face. I have to be careful to avert my own gaze so that we don’t keep making eye contact. Every time we do, it feels flirty.

This is definitely a trap. Trying to paint Viktor accurately requires intense study of his features. That jaw. Those cheekbones. His beautiful, lying eyes. Even more distracting are the little details my mind glosses over, like the slight angle of his nose from that time he broke it face-planting off the roof of the shed, or the little scar on his eyebrow from where he split his face open when he ran full-tilt into a swing set. We couldn’t have been more than six at the time, but I remember that day so clearly. He didn’t cry when blood dripped into his eyes, so I cried for him, even as I dragged him back to the bench where our dads were waiting for us.

I remember how it felt to see one of my best friends get hurt, and how that pain seemed to transfer into me, as if the suffering was mine.

I felt the same way when Mick died. Like all the pain that he couldn’t feel anymore became my inheritance.

The connection between those two events reignites my fury, and I channel it all into my painting. I don’t say a word for the half hour.

“Okay, let’s show our pictures!” Sofia chirps. She spins her painting to show a decent likeness of Knight. It’s not museum-worthy, but it’s good enough to hang on the wall without shame. Knight reveals his portrait, which is… made with love. Lots of love. Not much skill, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

“Ready?” Viktor asks me. He turns his canvas around almost shyly to reveal someone who looks a lot like me. The portrait is sketchy, and he is terrible at noses, but he’s captured something familiar. My hair is rendered in dark purples and blues, but my face is radiant. Imperfect, angry, and still beautiful.

I want someone to see me that way. The trouble is, I want someone to love me for what they see, and Vik ain’t it.

I flash him a piranha smile and flip my canvas so that he can see what I’ve made. It’s a lot less realistic than everyone else’s paintings, but there’s no denying the resemblance between the chiseled, blond man-ho before me and the little voodoo doll I’ve painted, chock full of pins and with Xs for eyes.

Knight shakes his head at me. “What the hell, Knova?”

“What?” I smile and bat my eyelashes. “Eyes are the windows to the soul.”

Sofia purses her lips. Viktor won’t even look at me.

I stare at the back of his head and feel something sick twist in my stomach. I did that. I made him feel like that. And for what? Some fleeting shot of control? A way to make my own confusion feel justified?

I rip the canvas off its tiny easel like it personally offended me. The legs scrape across the table with a squeal that makes everyone wince. I don’t care. I do care. But caring feels dangerous right now. “Thanks for the party. I’ve got to go.” I rush toward the door without waiting for anyone to respond.

I feel sick. Angry, but also guilty. Sofia didn’t deserve that. Knight didn’t either. But the anger in my gut is so hot and sour that I don’t know what else to do with it. I hate getting hurt. It makes me want to lash out at the people who hurt me.

And Viktor’s betrayal? That hurts like hell. I hate to admit it, but I want to be able to trust him. I want to believe that someone could look at me, and my bad attitude and all my bullshit baggage, and still love me.

I’m still mashing my feet into my shoes when Viktor joins me in the hallway. “This was supposed to be fun,” he whispers.

“Well, it would be a lot more fun for me if you weren’t fucking someone else!” I snap.

Viktor reels back like I’ve slapped him. “What?”

I want to tell him that I know. About outreach, about his Saturday plans, about all the times I’ve played second fiddle to some hookup. If I open my mouth, though, I might just start screaming and never stop.

So instead, I take my painting and go.

My steps echo too loud in the hallway. My throat aches with unshed words. I want to scream at him. I want him to chase me. I want someone to make this stop hurting. But I just keep walking. Because if I stop, I might cry—and crying is for weak-ass pussies who don’t know how to armor up and move on.

I don’t cry. I don’t break. I burn.

And right now, I’m doing everything I can to stay on fire—because if the flames go out, I’m just a girl standing alone in a hallway with a voodoo painting and a broken heart. And I don’t know how to survive that.