Page 130 of Wicked Proposal

By now, Yulian’s seen enough to put two and two together.

His thumb strokes my scars. “You shouldn’t blame yourself. You protected Eli from a monster.”

“But I put him in danger,” I whisper.

“Because you’re human. Because you tried your best and for one night, it wasn’t enough.” Somehow, his words feel raw. Personal. Like they’re about more than just my story. “But that doesn’t mean you get to stop trying.”

We’re so close now, our lips are touching with every word. I want him to kiss me so bad. Want him to take me to bed and make me forget.

“Go,” I beg him instead. “Before we do something we’ll both regret.”

His hand comes up to my cheek, stroking my face, brushing away the tears. “Like what?”

“Fall,” I whisper. “I’ve fallen once already. I know what it feels like when there’s no one there to catch you.”

“That’s what you think?” he asks. “That I won’t catch you?”

“I think,” I murmur, stroking his face right back, “that we have a contract.”

He pulls away then. Not abruptly—not with anger. Just does what I asked him to do, even if it guts me. Even if it guts us both.

“Okay.”

“Thank you,” I whisper.

He heads for the door. There, he hesitates.

I wonder if he’ll say I’m wrong. If he’ll shred that contract to pieces and pull me into his arms. If he’ll tell me he wants me, all of me, the baggage and the broken parts, and take me to bed to fix what needs fixing.

Instead, he says, “Goodnight, Mia.”

“Goodnight, Yulian.”

And then he’s gone.

40

YULIAN

Headstones flank me as I walk.

My link with death is usually more subtle than this. I feel it like a knife in the ribs every second of every day, but for others, it’s just a chill in the air that surrounds me.

Today, though, I walk with death. Beside it. Among it.

The cemetery is quiet. Unchanged since the last time I was here, a whole trip around the sun ago. There’s an unnatural stillness in the air, the leaves, everything that should be moving but isn’t.

Here, every living thing is waiting.

“Mama.” The word scrapes like sandpaper on my tongue. “Otets.” My gaze flicks from one headstone to the other, then drops to the last one. Much lower. Much smaller. “Sestra.”

Mother. Father. Sister.

I kneel in the dirt and start cleaning the graves.

Kneeling is such a foreign concept for me. Men like me don’t kneel: we break everybody else, knock them down until their only choice is to curse me looking up.

But here—for them—I kneel.