Cruel Compassion: A dystopian thriller with a hint of romance (Insurrection Series Book 1)

by A. E. King

  “There’s a lot we’d both like to forget,” I tell him gently and scoot a little closer as I touch his arm. “I can’t even remember the name. It was such a long time ago. But these . . .” I pick up one of the Armenian cookies “. . . are worth remembering.”

  I hand one of the cookies to him. “They’re guaranteed to cheer you up.” I offer him a little smile.

  “I had them every Saturday morning,” he says softly, taking the cookie from me. “My father used to take me there on his day off.”

  I lean my head on his shoulder and hate myself for using his loss to achieve my objective.

  “Time doesn’t take away the missing. I didn’t understand that when we were kids. I thought that when you got happier you would miss them less, but now, I know. You learn to smile and miss at the same time.” Maybe this moment is genuine. Isn’t this how we became friends in the first place? Me comforting him when he missed his family. It’s like a reflex.

  “I felt guilty at first, every time I was happy. I felt like I was betraying them.” He places his hand on the sofa in between us, and I wonder if it’s an invitation to hold it.

  “Happiness? Remind me what that feels like?” I attempt a joke.

  “Saturday morning cookies with my papa. Bedtime stories with my mama. Warm, sunny days in the woods with you and Sasha. And you. Most memories with you.”

  I’m suddenly uncomfortable with my head resting on his shoulder.

  I wonder why he never mentioned the bakery with his father. Was it too painful to think about? I always thought he had been brought to the bakery because it was a location convenient to us. But maybe we went to a location convenient for his people.

  “Meer Fkoosna.” He states, and I look at him in question. “That’s the name of the international market.”

  “Well, I’ll have to remember that.” I smile at him, attempting to lighten the conversation. “It’s not every day you go into a grocery store and come home with a brother.”

  “Brother?” He scrunches his nose and scoffs. “Don’t say that. Call me anything besides that.” He always hated when people referred to us as siblings.

  “And what would you like me to call you?” I ask.

  “Hmm. That’s a tough one.” He grabs another pastry. “We’ve established ally, even though you didn’t like it.” He passes me a bite-sized myod cake. “Let me think of all the words you threw in my face the other night. Lovers? Sadly no. Soulmate? Feels like a reach. Family . . .” He ponders. “That one’s complicated. Friend? I hope so. But maybe we should start with Dima.”

  My heart stops for a moment and, immediately, I feel bricks stacking up to guard my heart. “You want me to call you Dima?”

  “Well, maybe not all of the time. Definitely not when you’re mad at me.” He laughs, and I force myself to smile with him. “But from time to time, when we aren’t playing for everyone else. In many ways, it’s easier being Dimitri, pretending that Dima is dead. But you have a way of waking him up. I thought that maybe when it was just you and I . . .”

  Does he know what he’s asking of me? Dima is beloved. A sacred memory. A separate being. It’s not a meaningless name, and I need the two to be distinct. Sending Dimitri to pay for his crimes is one thing. Sending Dima is something entirely different. Does he think opening up this old connection will absolve him somehow? But I can’t think of a rational way to refuse him, and I don’t want to drive him away. I suspect that if he were inclined, he could be incredibly helpful to me.

  “Dima,” I try it on, and his smile softens in response. I’m getting nowhere tonight as our conversations spin from pastries to loss to nicknames. I came here for information, and he’s muddling my resolve. “I wanted to ask you about something. How did the Myatezhniki infiltrate the government before Mama died?”

  He stops smiling. I reach out and place my hand in his. I look deep into his eyes. “I deserve an answer.”

  “You assume I know more than I do,” he says quietly, looking at our intertwined fingers.

  “No, I assume you know more than I do. Please,” I ask.

  I can see the war waging inside him.

  “You promised not to lie to me,” I remind him.

  “I also promised to protect you, and you said you didn’t want to be a part of anything illegal. Yet here we are. For the second time, you’re starting criminal conversations. Are we breaking rules?” He rubs his thumb across my hand. I know my behavior is reprehensible because I have to work so hard to justify it. Dima is sad for his parents and vulnerable. Instead of giving him space, I’m using it against him.

  “Not breaking. Just bending.” I scoot closer to him and place my other hand on his chest.

  “Pity, that’s the rule you want to bend.” He scoots away, and I refuse to let him withdraw. So I use the best ammunition I have.

  I sit on his lap, then place my hands on either side of his face and gently stroke his cheeks while I whisper the words I spent all week composing. “I thought if I could understand the past it might give me more peace with the present.” I lean my forehead against his. “And maybe then I can start to envision our future.”

  He moves his hand to my hip, holding me in place as though he might need to push me away, and I worry that he will be too strong. If I fail now, I don’t think I’ll ever crack him. So I dig deep, trying to find the courage to give him this private piece of my soul. “In another life, all I wanted was you.” I kiss his lips gently while his lips remain frozen. “And maybe a couple of babies. But now, I can’t see anything for us.” I don’t imagine this truth hurts him like it hurts me, but I hope it’s enough to stir some guilt or long lost longing.

  I continue. “Please, Dima. Help me understand the past so I can start to see what my life will be. What our lives will be.” I kiss him again, my lips soft and persistent in their demands. Still, he gives me nothing. I stop, feeling both the shame of rejection and the disappointment of denied information. Heat burns in my cheeks, and I’m tempted to throw him and his pastries out into the hall. Instead, I dig in the knife. “Am I to be Lady Brett Ashley, having to seek affection from everyone but the one she wants? And will you be the impotent Jake, incapable of giving me any type of happiness?” The bitterness isn’t fabricated.

  “Our future will look like whatever you want it to. If that’s love and babies, or friendship and protection, you’ll have it,” he answers seriously.

  I kiss him again, and this time my mouth is angry against his. His hands clench the fabric of my T-shirt and press against my hips, but his lips give me nothing.

  I pull back, holding my back so straight I hope it will hide my mortification. “Not anything I want. Not honesty and openness. Not you wanting me. Just secrets, obligations, and half of you at most.” I meant to injure him, but somehow the words rebound and hit me instead. There’s too much truth in them. How incredibly sad it will be to spend a life with Dimitri, remembering how completely I loved Dima and only ever having a fraction of him.

  He wraps his arms around my waist and draws me close. “Can’t you see how much I want you?” he breathes into my ear. His voice, low and deep, sends shivers down my back. “Every time I start kissing you and touching you, I don’t want to stop. It’s incredibly frustrating. But I’m trying to keep my promise to you. So if you’re going to start kissing me, do it because you want me. Not because you want something from me.” He strokes my cheek. And my heart beats faster, pumping embarrassment down to the soles of my feet. He saw right through me. I uncovered my dearest dream and laid it before him. And it elicited nothing more than an admission that he doesn’t like to stop kissing me.

  “Just tell me what you really want from me,” he implores quietly.

  “How can I know what I want when everyone knows my life better than me?” I slide off his lap. I thought manipulation would be so much easier. I could trade a few kisses for a few secrets. Instead, I find it complicated and full of consequences. I want him to leave so I can forget this strange mixture of guilt,
longing, and disappointment. “Just throw the pastries away. I’m tired.”

  “Yulia . . .” His tone is both apologetic and condescending.

  “Just go.” More than my ego was tattered tonight.

  “Can we talk about this?” He reaches out for my hand.

  “I’d rather not.” I stand and fold my arms.

  He stands, teetering on the edge of his damn convictions. I can see the struggle in his eyes. He takes a step toward me, like he’s making some concession on my behalf.

  I refuse to accept whatever he is offering. “I want you to leave. You can take those with you. Pick anything you like for the wedding.” What a nightmare this wedding will be. The only thing worse than rejection would be his pity kisses.

  He doesn’t move for a moment so I sit back down, grab my book, and pretend to read.

  “Fine.” He grabs the box roughly, cramming it into the trash with more force than is necessary. I watch him over the top of my book and notice him quietly slipping the note into his jacket pocket. Why keep the note?

  “That was addressed to me,” I remind him.

  “It’s probably just an advertisement.” His mask is secured back in place.

  “Then give me my advertisement.”

  “Can you just be reasonable?” he says exasperatedly.

  I give him a glare that clearly says, I might kill you in your sleep.

  He opens the envelope, scans the letter, then crumples it in his hand. A flash of rage moves across his face before he wipes it of all emotion.

  “What does it say?” I ask, now curious about the note’s contents.

  “Why would you need to know?” he shoots back at me. “Everyone else knows your life better than you anyway.”

  “Give me my note,” I demand.

  He throws the crumpled paper on the floor, storming to the door. Then he stops with his hand on the knob, takes a deep breath, and changes course. He fetches the note off the floor and smooths it out. “Read it.”

  The birds will sing for you, Yulia Vladomirovna Bituskaya. If, as you’re preparing for your wedding, you’re dissatisfied with your current options, please consider reaching out to an old friend. We would be happy to serve you and connect you with any resources you may need to prepare for your special day.

  ~M

  Dimitri watches me like a judge looking for signs of guilt. What in the world is that message about, and why did Dimitri find it so offensive? I look at him, trying to form all the questions into one coherent inquiry.

  “Want to tell me what that’s about, Yulia?” he demands.

  “How should I know? You’re the one throwing a tantrum. Maybe you should tell me what it’s about.” I place the question back on him. I can’t quite explain it, but the note does stir forgotten memories.

  “He knew me from childhood. I’m the groom in this blasted wedding, and he doesn’t bother to mention me,” he says through gritted teeth.

  “Why does that bother you?” I ask him.

  “Because everyone who knew my father thinks I’m a disgrace to his name.” He storms away again, the door slamming behind him.

  I reread the note again and force those hazy memories to the forefront of my mind. “No,” I say to myself. “There’s more that bothers you about this note.”

  I’ve planned enough events to know this is not how a caterer solicits business. The birds will sing for me?

  A dim memory rises to the surface.

  “How is the weather today?” my mother asked Zhenya.

  “The birds will sing for you,” Zhenya answered.

  The memory stayed with me because it was raining. And birds don’t sing in the rain.

  Another distant memory rises.

  “How is the weather today?” a stranger asked my mother. It was the shopkeeper at a grocery store she and I were visiting for the first time.

  “Beautiful. The sky is so clear the birds will sing for you.” My mother smiled at him. “Yulia, look at all those pastries. Go pick out some for Sasha and Papa. We’ll bring them home tonight!” I ran off, enamored with confectioners’ sugar and frosting.

  The man who wrote this note definitely had a connection to my mother. One that required cryptic code.

  If, as you’re preparing for your wedding, you’re dissatisfied with your current options . . .

  That’s exactly how I find myself. Maybe I don’t need Dimitri to give me information. Something tells me the man who wrote this note has answers. And I intend to find them.

  Chapter 16

  I put the final touches on my makeup. I am dressed in a sleek white dress with a low-cut neckline, chosen to punish Dimitri. If he really wants me, I will use it to my advantage. And if he suffers a bit for it, all the better.

  I slide on my tallest heels. I need the height advantage today. I have not been able to shake the suspicion that Meer Fkoosna is connected to the Myatezhniki, and I need both my father’s approval and Dimitri’s cooperation to pursue my hunch.

  For the last week, I’ve been working on an engagement album to disguise my growing obsession. I’ve searched all sorts of places and events connected to Dimitri and me to disguise the one search I truly care about: Meer Fkoosna. The market is owned by the same man. He looks older in his picture, but I recognize him from my childhood trips.

  I have so many questions. If Dima went to the bakery weekly with his father, why not send the note to Dimitri? Surely the owner knew Dima better than he knew me. I only went there a handful of times. And what about the M? According to the website, the owner’s name is Grigori. Why not sign it with his name, or with Meer Fkoosna? I’ve read the note a hundred times. Each time brings more questions. What if the M stands for Myatezhniki?

  Meer Fkoosna is only a metro stop from Moscow’s fashion district. For once, I’m grateful for my upcoming wedding. What kind of bride would I be if I didn’t insist on the perfect dress? And while I’m pursuing that dress in the fashion district, I can surely indulge in a nostalgic visit to a pastry shop that holds so many dear memories.

  At least, that’s what I’ll tell my father when I petition him to approve my shopping trip to Moscow.

  I slide Dimitri’s mother’s ring on my finger and clasp my mother’s favorite pearl necklace behind my neck. The pearls always felt heavy and tight around my throat. But lately, the cool weight of the pearls against my skin is a constant reminder of my mother’s presence. I feel more connected to her than ever. Maybe it’s the loveless marriage or the fight over the orphanage. But I feel her guiding me as I walk a path that feels more and more like hers.

  My father loves when I wear the necklace because our citizens recognize it. He’ll see it as an act of compliance, my agreement to play his game. Only I will know it truly symbolizes my growing rebellion.

  I gather the portfolio of dress designs my father commissioned and make my way to his office, where the Council is holding their weekly meeting. It’s a bold move for me to attend unsummoned, but it’s the best way to catch Dimitri and my father at the same time.

  I arrive precisely two minutes before the scheduled end to the daily meeting. I stand against the wall, holding my portfolio and wishing for the door to open.

  Several minutes go by. “What time is it?” I ask the Peredacha.

  “Thirteen-hundred and fifteen minutes,” the familiar automated voice responds. The meeting is running late. And that means my father will have less time to spare for me. Will that help or hurt my cause?

  Finally, the door opens. Dimitri steps out, raising his eyebrow quizzically.

  “I need a few minutes with you and my father,” I say, gesturing to my portfolio. “It’s urgent, about the wedding.”

  Dimitri disappears behind the door and reappears a few seconds later, motioning me in.

  My father sits behind his desk, loosening his necktie. He has dark circles under his eyes and looks like he hasn’t slept. “Whatever this is, I assure you I don’t have time for it. Your little pet project has already cost me enough thi
s week.”

  My stomach tightens. “Your support is appreciated. I’ll never be able to repay you.” I smile at him. “I’ll be quick, Papa. There’s no time to spare. My wedding dress is a disaster.”

  He sighs and moves from behind his desk. “Five minutes.”

  “The designs are completely unacceptable.” I set the portfolio on the desk and open it. “Take this one, for example.” I hold out a beautiful sketch. “That silhouette is terrible for someone my height. I’ll look like a beanstalk.” The vein in his forehead throbs. “And this one.” I raise my voice in indignation and shove another beautiful design in front of his face. “I might as well show up in sweatpants. This is far too casual.”

  He pushes the designs away. “Yulia, this is anything but quick. I don’t have time to look at dresses. Find a different designer and have them send me the bill.”

  “Thank you, Papa.” I smile at him. “The best designers are all in Moscow. I’ll go in person. That way, there will be no delay in commissioning the dress. Zhenya and I will leave tomorrow.”

  He scowls. I catch Dimitri’s expression out of the corner of my eye, his lips turning up in amusement.

  “Not this weekend,” my father says. “I need Dimitri here.”

  “Yes, Dimitri should stay here. He can’t see the dress.” I feign shock at the suggestion. “I won’t curse our lives with misfortune.”

  I glance toward Dimitri. His smile has faded into scrutiny.

  “Plan it when he can go. Otherwise, it’s a waste of a PR opportunity,” My father says. “He need not enter any shops, but you should make appearances together in the evenings.” He waves his hand to indicate that I’m excused.

  I anticipated this argument. “But Papa, It can take upward of six months to get a gown. I can’t afford to wait for Dimitri’s availability.”

  My father pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yulia, why would you think you have six months to arrange a dress?”