by Anne Malcom
“There’s no going through hell, Elizabeth,” he said. “Not for us. We’re in it. We’ll always be in it. Some parts are harder to wade through. Others are worth damnation.” His voice thickened.
My breathing came in rough pants.
“Neither of us has known kindness in our lives,” he continued, rubbing against me gently. But even the gentlest touch was too much, more than I could handle. But I wanted more. “We aren’t wired for it. We’re not designed for it. There’s no place for it here.” He pressed with the pad of his thumb to make his point before releasing me. “Not with us.”
I took a couple of seconds to recover, to find words. “So cruelty is all I’ll ever get from you?”
He yanked me to him—roughly, of course, like always, but there was a tender edge to it I couldn’t explain. Like the man who might’ve been Lukyan, if things were so very different, was trying to reach out from a parallel universe and give me comfort.
“No,” he rasped. “You’re going to get everything from me. Everything I’ve got. Not an inch of it is kind or empathetic or soft. But I’ll carve out my fucking heart and serve it to you on a platter. That’s what I was trying to demonstrate to you. That must count for something.”
Things like that, people said with conviction, with passion, and on some level, they meant them. But not really. Of course no young lover is going to take a sharp-edged blade and cut into their chest cavity.
But I didn’t have a young lover holding me. This was a man who would, quite literally, yank out his bloody, blackened and mangled beating heart if I so asked. He was that fucked up.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “It counts for everything.”
Lukyan
Three Weeks Later
Lukyan shut the door the second he glanced at the caller ID on his ringing phone. Not that it would make a difference. His operations room was isolated and all but hidden. She hadn’t been in here. Didn’t know it even existed.
And even if she did, Lukyan knew she wouldn’t be lurking around, trying to snoop, uncover information. If she wanted to know something, she just asked. She may have been a natural at killing, but she was not a master of deception.
Not like him.
He closed the door anyway.
It was too much of a risk. If she heard a snippet of the wrong part of this conversation—any part, since the whole conversation was wrong—she’d ask a question. And Lukyan was deceiving her, but he would never outright lie to her. So he’d tell her the truth.
Then he’d lose her.
The knowledge might push her over the edge she was dangling off, even if she didn’t realize it yet. The edge of recovery. Of stepping out into the world and being able to handle it.
He should’ve wanted that.
He did.
But he also didn’t. Didn’t want the world to have her, experience her brilliance. He wanted it to himself.
“Lukyan,” the voice greeted his silence. One of the few on this planet who knew his true name.
Lukyan waited.
“I’m hearing murmurs,” the voice continued. The man on the other end of the phone had not gone to the pains Lukyan had at disguising his accent. The harsh cadence of his words taunted Lukyan. Which was why he’d been avoiding the calls.
The only reason he’d answered this one was because if he didn’t, the owner of the voice might put it upon himself to locate Lukyan. It would take him a while, but he’d do so. Then he’d pay Lukyan a visit. And see Elizabeth.
Then it would be the end.
Lukyan still didn’t speak.
“Christopher Atherton has disappeared,” the voice continued.
“I’m aware,” Lukyan said evenly.
“Some of his lieutenants too.”
“Obviously someone is cleaning house,” Lukyan replied, unflappable. “Happens when a power vacuum is created and the minions are scrambling for control.”
There was a slight crackling on the other end of the phone. Most likely a tap. Or some kind of tracing device. Lukyan worried about neither. Such efforts were so elementary they barely warranted a thought.
“Yes,” the voice agreed. “That’s what does happen, in the cases when there has not been a replacement to take the reins.”
Lukyan paused, his eyes on the monitors. On Elizabeth in the kitchen with Vera. They were baking.
It should’ve irritated him.
Elizabeth fraternizing with the help. Trying to make her feel like she was something more than an employee. Lukyan himself had barely talked to the woman, only seen her a handful of times in the span of the six years she’d been in his employ.
How he designed it. She was the only one who had lasted this long. Ones previous hadn’t understood. She took care of the household with efficiency, and the best, invisibility. Lukyan had deduced it was because she was from his native country and she was also brought up with the cold distance required to survive in it.
Elizabeth smiled at something the older woman said. It didn’t look quite right, the expression. It was rusty, unused, her facial muscles not quite sure of how to flex with outward happiness.
But it was still beautiful.
Which was why Lukyan didn’t mind.
But the structure of the sentence uttered at the other end of the phone, coupled with the slight bite of satisfaction, had Lukyan’s attention ripped from the monitors.
“And by your insinuation, someone has taken the reins,” Lukyan bit out.
There was a pause, of course designed to taunt Lukyan. If not for the woman with a smear of flour on her cheek, it wouldn’t have.
“Yes,” the voice said.
“Are you going to move to Hollywood and get yourself an agent? With your penchant for theatrics, I’m sure the Americans would love you,” Lukyan said dryly, his bored tone forced.
A cold laugh at the other end of the phone. “Humor, brat? My, something has changed you.”
Lukyan clenched his fists. “Impatience tends to do so. I’m not one to waste time on a conversation that should’ve reached its conclusion minutes ago.”
There was a pause. “Hades,” he said. “The Hades family have made the most of their son-in-law’s disappearance, and have rather successfully taken over. I would assume it has something to do with the fact that they’re legally family, even with their daughter dead.” Another pause. “Of course, they don’t know that. I’m sure they’ll be looking for her now, to help cement their position.”
Lukyan watched Elizabeth’s body bend while she put something—scones he guessed, since he’d mentioned something about how he enjoyed them and now that was all she made—in the oven. Her body moved fluidly. With more confidence, with more grace than he ever thought the broken creature of months ago would’ve been capable of.
Every day a new discovery.
“But you took care of that, didn’t you, brother?” his younger sibling answered.
Lukyan didn’t hesitate, even a beat. “Of course I did. You know better than to question me.”
“Of course I do,” his brother placated. “You are a man of your word. The pride of our clan. You wouldn’t let us down. You wouldn’t let yourself down. Since you were the one who suggested eliminating her in the first place.”
“Is there a specific reason you called?” Lukyan asked coldly. “Or was it just to endanger yourself by insulting me and informing me of news I would’ve found out on my own?”
His brother laughed. “Of course, Lukyan. So serious, driven only by death and revenge. No time for pleasantries for your own blood.”
Lukyan didn’t answer.
“Father is coming to town. He wants an audience.”
Lukyan’s blood froze. “And I have refused such audiences for the past decade. What makes him think it would be any different this time?”
“Because your wife’s going to be there too.”
And then, before Lukyan could do it himself, his brother hung up.
Lukyan had thrown the phone against the wall and watche
d it explode into small chunks before he could find control.
He stared at the remains of the phone. Then he went back to watching Elizabeth dry her hands, sit down and take the cup of tea Vera offered her. She wasn’t smiling. That was never going to be something that happened all the time. Or even often.
Her face would always be just a little bit pinched with that pain he knew would never escape her, no matter how strong she got. Those eyes would always be a little bit too hard for her features because of the calcified horror living behind them.
These things would always stop her from being obviously or classically beautiful.
They would also be the things that made her so extraordinary it was hard to focus on anything else if she was in the room.
And that’s exactly what happened to Lukyan.
Distraction.
Affection.
Love.
Unwelcome emotions that he hated. He hated her a little too, but he reasoned he couldn’t love her without hating her. Much like her.
He also found himself with another unwelcome emotion.
Fear.
It uncoiled like a snake, slithering through all his limbs as he became more attached to Elizabeth, as she melded herself to his bones.
For her well-being, of course. For her prolonged life that would last as long as his own. He suspected the usual fears of the fool in love.
But there was something else. Fear of a thing that he’d never once been afraid of in his life. The thing that he usually used as a weapon.
The truth.
Because if she discovered it, then it was all over. Everything. Her life might very well last as long as his own—longer, in fact. Because after the truth killed whatever was left in her that she’d given to him, she’d kill him. And not figuratively either.
Elizabeth
“I’m going to warn you, I’m not much of a baker,” I said, measuring out the flour.
Vera glanced upward. “Oh, that’s not why we’re here,” she replied. Her sharp eyes went back to me and what I was doing. “Cold chunks of butter. Mix it with your hands,” she instructed.
I did as I was told. Vera and I had struck up somewhat of a strange friendship over the time I’d been here. Not that I was looking for a friend, or a good conversationalist. I wasn’t much of a person. The only reason Lukyan and I worked was because he wasn’t much of a person either.
But there was a strange pull to Vera, the shadow of the woman I had known for less than a pinch of my lifetime, but she gave me a glimpse into what a mother might’ve been like. A real one.
Not that Vera was warm or cheerful. She was rather cold and distant. But still, she didn’t make an effort to become invisible as she once had. And because I didn’t like the idea of her waiting on us, and missed having the purpose of cooking, I’d wandered in here one day to ask if she needed help with anything. She’d surveyed me for a long moment before she replied.
Then she’d thrust a bag of potatoes at me. “Peel these.”
And that was that.
We barely talked.
I liked that.
It wasn’t that horrible itchy silence that fell when you ran out of words to put in the empty spaces. It was compatible.
But now it seemed Vera had something to say. The air wasn’t comfortably empty.
“You’re in here because, although there are cameras in the kitchen, there are no microphones,” Vera said, not glancing up, moving closer to me and looking at the bowl in which I was mixing.
“There’re microphones too, in the other rooms?” I asked, not surprised but interested that she knew.
She nodded once.
“And you asked me here because you have something you wanted to say,” I deduced.
Another nod, accompanied by a lifting of the milk jug and splashing the liquid into the bowl and my sticky hands. “Keep mixing.”
My hands moved.
“You know, if this doesn’t work out, he’ll kill you,” she said conversationally.
My head snapped up, but I kept my face clear, remembering the cameras. Then I glanced around the room subtly, to take note of where the knives were, just in case.
This was Lukyan’s world. No one was to be trusted.
Vera’s eyes were sharp, not just in appearance. “I’m not going to hurt you. He’d kill me if I did that. And I rather value my life, such as it is. Plus, I don’t want you hurt. I do like you.”
I chewed over the words as she added more milk and the sticky mixture in my hands became somewhat of a dough.
“Has there been—am I the only one?” I asked as she floured the table top.
“Oh yes,” she replied. “That’s why he’ll kill you if it doesn’t work out. Heartbreak doesn’t work well in people who’ve never loved before. Especially people like Lukyan. It’ll destroy them. But not before they take out everyone around them.” She took the dough from my hands.
I walked over to the sink to wash off the gunk that had attached itself to my skin. The water washed away the mixture, but not the film of unease that had settled over my skin with Vera’s words.
“You know who he is, then?” I asked.
She smiled at me, and I somehow found myself smiling back.
“Oh no, no one but Lukyan—and perhaps you—might know who he is,” she said, kneading at the dough. “But I do know what he is.”
“So do I,” I said, wiping my hands and preparing the tray for the scones.
She quirked her brow at me, inspecting me. “I suspect you do.”
There was a long silence, and I bent down to put the scones in the oven. I straightened, wiping my hands, and accepted the tea Vera offered me.
“I also suspect you know what you’re getting into,” she continued. “And that you’re one of the people who have never loved before either. I suspect your heartbreak might be even more dangerous than Lukyan’s, should it come to pass.”
I didn’t reply, just sipped my tea.
“You’re stronger now than when you came,” she continued. “You know you could probably leave now, if you so desired.” She glanced at the door off the kitchen, then gave me a shrewd look. “But I suspect you already knew that.”
I swallowed the sweet liquid and her bitter words.
My eyes fastened on the door, searching for truth in her words. Was my pain no longer my captor?
Was it Lukyan’s love?
Did I care?
15
One Month Later
Lukyan
“Lukyan, I need to stop.”
He continued to move, to force her to move, to jab, admonish her with his eyes for her sloppy dodge and her clumsy attempt at a jab.
He also pretended he didn’t hear the exhaustion in her voice. The strained way in which she ripped the words out because she was so out of breath she could barely speak and dodge his blows at the same time. He couldn’t pretend he didn’t see the thin trail of blood coming from the corner of her mouth, smeared from where she’d wiped at it with the back of her hand. He told himself it was necessary, that he was a fool to be burdened by a couple of bruises that would heal, pain she could handle.
“Lukyan,” she choked out.
He was working her too hard. He knew this. Even though every inch of his body told him to stop, told him he should’ve stopped an hour ago, he couldn’t. Something else was driving him. That fear he hadn’t been able to shake since the phone call. The whispers filtering through the underworld. The threats from every angle and the overwhelming claustrophobia of his estate.
He didn’t resent her for keeping him there. Keeping them both there. He was happy to be imprisoned with her. But he did resent himself for knowing that they couldn’t stay there, for causing the danger that would mean they would have to leave.
She would have to leave. The only other option was leaving without her, and that wasn’t an option at all.
“Lukyan,” she snapped, stopping and forcing him to stop too, unless he really wanted to hurt her. “I can’t
keep going.”
He stared at her. At the iridescent glow of her milky, sweat-soaked skin. At the scars that were so much more pronounced when she was flushed with exertion. At the tendrils of hair escaping her sloppy ponytail. The arched eyebrows, dark and framing her face. Slightly too big, but coaxing his eyes toward her black irises.
Black irises full of anger.
And hurt.
“You need to learn to push past the pain that’s trying to convince you that you can’t take more.” He stepped forward, threat in his eyes, in his stance. “You can take more. You will take more.”
She held her ground, lifting her chin slightly so it jutted out in defiance. A simple move, one that would’ve been alien to her months ago.
“No,” she hissed. “I may be able to take more, but you’ll have to hurt me, really hurt me to prove your point, Lukyan.” It was a challenge. And an invitation.
The cold and empty part of him ached to take her up on the offer, to truly show her what lay inside him. To challenge his own feelings for her, to see if he could take more. Because she was right, she could. But he didn’t know if he could.
“You’re not going to hurt me,” she said, walking forward, and he grasped her hand as she tried to lift it to his face.
She paused but didn’t say anything.
He tightened his grip on her wrist, to the point of pain. He knew this because it was his job, his nature, to notice her swift intake of breath, the dilation of her pupils, the tightness in her body, steady increase in her heartbeat.
But she didn’t protest, didn’t pull away. If anything, she sank further into him. A challenge.
“I can’t promise you that,” he replied. “I can’t even promise myself that.”
And that scared him more than he cared to admit.
A lot more.
Elizabeth
My body was screaming. Throbbing. Every muscle. Every bone.
I was lead. Ready to drop.
But I didn’t. Because of Lukyan’s face. The desperation that taunted the edges of his blank stare, that had been steadily growing since that day I made scones and found out the housekeeper knew a lot more than how to knead dough.