Page 87 of Ruinous Need

If I have to do this, there’s no point traumatizing my twelve-year-old brother on the way.

The priest begins his sermon.I stare at Semyon, meeting his icy blue eyes with my chin tilted up. I’m not afraid of him anymore.

Fate is here. I should have accepted it a long time ago. There’s no love for me, in these icy depths, just a faint boredom and irritation.

I will be nothing to you. You will be nothing to me.

That’s the vow I make in my head, as the priest reads the real vows aloud.

I resign myself to it.

Semyon looks at me expectantly, and the priest nods to indicate that I should speak.

There’s a gun pointed at my head. There are more pointed at my family. And yet I can’t get my voice to work.

I open my mouth, the layer of lipstick thick on my lips. Semyon nods his head to my family, as though willing me to look at them and remember the stakes. He taps his wrist with his hand.

As though the prospect of their deaths hasn’t been all I can think about as I try to force myself to go through with this. I glare at him and inhale, preparing myself to say it.

The words are on the tip of my tongue.

The silence stretches on, my senses dulling as I realize there’s no escaping this. I feel like I’m underwater, moving in slow motion.

“I—” The word hardly comes out, croaking in my throat. I clear my throat and try to begin again.

The armed guards lean closer to my family. A sea of eyes in the audience stare back at my face as it goes blank with panic. Semyon’s hand tightens on mine in anger.

And all I can do is stare at the door, waiting for a savior who will never appear.

Then, hell breaks loose in the church.

My heart races before my ears have even processed the sound.

A bang. A gunshot. Echoing into the church from outside.

I gasp and it’s like I’ve just been shocked back to life.Semyon drops my hand as he turns towards the doors.

Suddenly no one’s paying attention to me and my defiant silence. My last rebellion.

A murmur runs through the congregation. I watch people‘s heads turn towards the entrance.

Beside me, Daria says something into a radio. But I’m not paying attention.

My eyes, like everyone else’s, are fixed on the doors. Heavy, ornate things made of dark wood and carved with symbols.

More gunshots sound from outside. Arms close around my shoulders, dragging me away to a side door.

I keep turning back to look, but they keep my head shoved forward, forcing me into the dim wood-paneled corridors of the church.

I take that as a good sign. If they won’t let me look, there must be something they don’t want me to see.

CHAPTER 39

VIKTOR

MY FATHER FORCED me to go to this church every Sunday throughout my childhood.

Religion was crucial to being Pakhan, he said. Not that he truly believed in anything — the church attendance was important purely because he wanted to keep up appearances. We presented the image of the happy family every Sunday, maintaining that facade for the benefit of the outside world.