Asher

by Shandi Boyes

  “Who are your tears for, Zariah? You? Me? Or are you angry Ruslan is lying lifeless on the floor instead of Zimiyi? If it’s the latter, tell me how you want Zimiyi punished, and I’ll do it. Do you want me to grip his wrist until it snaps in two? Gut him at your feet so no man will dare touch you again?”

  When I raise my hand to clear the little blob gliding down her cheek, she pulls away from me. It angers me more than it pleases me.

  “They’re for nobody. They are stupid.” It could be my pulse raging in my ears, but I swear she murmurs, “I’m stupid.”

  Testing a theory, I mutter, “Stupid for not fighting back? Or stupid because you got turned on from fighting me—instead of angry?”

  I see her lie in her eyes before I hear it. Her bloomed cheeks and seductive scent give away her secret, much less the fact I’m tackling the same reactions from my body. I only released her because it was either let her go or act on the inane thoughts rolling through my head. I went with what I thought she wanted, although now I’m not so confident of my assessment.

  Annoyed by my thoughts, I growl, “Don’t lie to me, Zariah. Lying is as punishable as being disobedient.” I hate what this woman is doing to me. She’s making me weak.

  Zariah’s eyes snap to mine, the fury in them unmissable. “Disobedient? You’re going to punish me for being disobedient after pinning me to the bed, screaming at me for not standing up for myself, and when I try to do precisely that, you threaten me. You’re a hypocrite, Asher Yury.”

  Every word she speaks is true, but I can’t leash my retaliation. I’m a stubborn fucking bastard. “I didn’t threaten you. I threatened the person you’re covering for.”

  She whips around so fast, her hair slaps my chest. “It’s the same thing!”

  The strength of her words shocks me. She has her arms wrapped around her midsection like she’s seconds from collapsing, but her words are stern and to the point, making me wonder if there is more behind her bleak, dull eyes than she’s letting on. They’re sparking with the fire I wanted them to exude earlier. She’s grappling for a sense of normality, fighting to wake herself from the nightmare she finds herself in. She’s reminding me of the girl I once admired.

  When she charges into her room, I’m the one left grappling. “Where are you going?”

  “Home! I’m sick of fighting. I’m sick of this stupid life. I’d rather be dead.”

  I grab the suitcase she pulled down from the closet and throw it across the room. It smacks into the lit candle in the corner, plunging her sleeping quarters into horrifying blackness. It has nothing on the darkness swamping me, though. I don’t like having her here, but there’s a comfort I get knowing she is here, with me, untouched.

  After crowding her against the wall, I grip her face as I did earlier and silently command her eyes to mine. When I get them, I growl, “Don’t ever say shit like that to me. Do you understand me? You are to never say shit like that to me.”

  Surprise crosses her features. “Why, Asher? It’s not like you care. You didn’t give a shit when a member of your crew rough-handled me, so why act like you care now?”

  Her eyes flash with an unexpected gleam when I roar, “Because you’re mine! And no one who is mine says shit like that!”

  “I’m not a possession, you bastard! I’m a person with feelings, and emotions, and a whole heap of fucked-up shit a man like you would never understand.” My chest burns when she bangs her fists on it, sending more tears toppling down her ashen cheeks. “Why are you doing this to me? Why bring me here? What did I ever do to you that you feel the need to torment me so cruelly?”

  My words are razor-sharp when I spit out, “You took away the woman I loved!”

  Blobs of moisture roll down her cheeks unchecked when she shakes her head. “No. I loved Dominique like a sister. I never wanted her to get hurt.”

  I can see the truth in her eyes, hear it in her sorrowful tone, but I can’t believe it. I’m too stubborn to believe anything not corroborated by facts. Furthermore, I also wasn’t referring to Dominique.

  “Tell me everything you know, Zariah? The truth. Then I may go lenient on those involved.”

  By lenient, I mean I won’t torture them. I’ll grant them quick, clean deaths.

  “I don’t know anything—”

  My grip on her cheeks turns her words into whimpers. A voice in my head is screaming at me to let her go, but I refuse to listen to reason. A rage is brewing in my gut, more violent and callous than any I’ve ever handled. It’s even more confusing since I can’t understand why it’s telling me not to focus all my anger on Zariah. It wants my anger locked on the hazy memories in my head. On times bygone. To a man I once was and will most likely never be again.

  I shake my thoughts from my head before putting my game face on. “Stop lying and tell the truth, Zariah. Be half the woman your mother hoped you’d become instead of the spineless, weak whore you are.”

  She spits in my face, the fear in her eyes incapable of holding back her retaliation. I draw her forward by clutching her shirt. I have no clue what I intend to do once she is in front of me. Half of me wants to strangle the truth from her, whereas the other half wants to kiss the living shit out of her.

  Before I can do either of those things, a crackling voice saves me making a mistake I swore I’d never make. “Shh, Little Mouse, you’re okay. I’ll never let anyone hurt you.”

  With my heart in my throat, I crank my head to the noise. My mother is standing at the entrance of Zariah’s room. She has an old video recorder in her hand, and her eyes are brimming with unshed tears.

  They glide down her cheeks when she spins the recorder around to face me. The image on the black screen is grainy, but there’s no mistaking the two people in the frame. It’s Zariah and me. From the lack of shadow on my jaw, I’d guess I’m around fourteen or fifteen. Zariah is a couple years younger than me. She’s snuggled into my chest and wearing the dress she wore at her mom’s funeral.

  After taking in the brutal clutch I have on Zariah’s shirt, my mom rewinds the tape. “Shh, Little Mouse, you’re okay. I’ll never let anyone hurt you.”

  She rewinds it again.

  And again.

  And again, only ceasing when I scream, “Stop it!”

  I release Zariah from my grip when my mother replies, “I’ll stop when you do. I didn’t defend you all these years for you to prove them right. You’re not your father, Asher, so stop acting like it!”

  She doesn’t blink in fear or cower back when I storm her way. She knows I’d never hurt her, so she has no cause for concern. Her tape, though, the recording that shows me as a weak, insolent boy who didn’t know the promises he was making, it won’t leave this room in one piece.

  After yanking the video from my mother’s grasp, I throw it to the ground before stomping on it with my boot. It crunches under the force, breaking up into tiny little pieces. I don’t stop until a black reel of tape is the only thing left tangled amongst the wreckage. It’s as black as the veins woven around my heart.

  Happy it is destroyed beyond repair, I lift my wide, massively dilated eyes to my mother. “I made her a promise. I said I’d never stop until I found the people responsible for her death.”

  I don’t need to articulate Dominique’s name for my mom to know who I am talking about. She heard the words I promised to Dominique before she died because she was there, kneeling beside me.

  “I know, Son, but you made promises to Zariah long before Dominique came into the picture.” She points to Zariah leaning against the wall I had her pinned to. Her face is as wet as my mother’s, her lips blistered from running her teeth over them. “Your anger is confusing you, and it has you fighting the wrong battle. Zariah is not your enemy, Asher. She is the woman you pledged to protect long before any of this happened.”

  “Then why did she go against me?! And why is she keeping secrets from me?!”

  My mom steps closer to me, her eyes nurturing. “That’s the point I’m trying to ma
ke. Why would she go against you? She has no reason to keep secrets from you. You’re just so hellbent on getting revenge, you’re not listening to anything anyone is saying.” Her watering eyes dance between mine. “That’s why you killed Ruslan. You were angry at Zimiyi for hurting Zariah, but instead of punishing him, you took all your anger out on Ruslan.”

  I want to argue, but there’s no point. Everything she says is true. I killed Ruslan to make a point. Not just for my mother, but Zariah as well. I want my men so afraid, they won’t be tempted to look in Zariah’s direction, much less grab her like Zimiyi did.

  My jaw grits when my words come out with a quiver, “They need to pay for what they did.” I could blame my heaving chest for the waver in my tone, but I know that isn’t the cause. I’m furiously mad, however, not all my anger rests on the shoulders of the people responsible for Dominique’s death. Some of it is mine.

  I’ve told myself time and time again the past thirty-six hours that I don’t care about Zariah, but I do. The feelings I had for her didn’t just disappear when our families became enemies. They remain no matter how hard I fight to ignore them, which annoys me greatly. I gave Dominique my word that I would avenge her death. I can’t do that and keep the promises I made to Zariah as well.

  One must die. I just don’t know which one.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Zariah

  One Month Later...

  * * *

  “Add an extra tablespoon of sugar into the mix; it might sweeten them up a little.”

  Eda chuckles before dumping a big clump of sugar into the custard we’re preparing for the ponchiks we’ll serve to a group of hungry men tomorrow. The past month has been odd, but I’m settling in better than I anticipated. My exchange with Asher was extremely disturbing, but it was what we needed to move beyond our past and toward our future.

  I don’t mean a future with a wedding dress and church bells ringing in the distance—our wedding date arrived and left without any fanfare. I mean the one where Asher governs his realm while I serve him and anyone he demands I serve. I guess that’s why things have run so smoothly. I’ve learned my place, so there’s no need for Asher to govern everything I do. I help prepare and serve the food; he eats it and leaves. That’s as far as our interactions have gone the past four weeks.

  Although I haven’t stepped back as far from ‘the help’ role as Farah would like, she’s still happy with the improvements I’ve made. She knows as well as I do that this makes things less complicated and will save a lot of heartache. My mother and she did the exact same thing their first four years of imprisonment.

  Brushing off the oddity that I’m more like my mother than I realized, I shift on my feet to face Eda. “I’ll run these out before coming back to help you dish up the meals.”

  I wait for her to nod before making my way into the main dining room. Asher’s crew isn’t as rowdy as they usually are. The first few days following Ruslan’s death were notably awkward. No one uttered a syllable, not even Asher. But as the days went on and the fear subsided, so did the hushed whispers. Asher’s men are an extremely rowdy bunch who are more interested in scarfing down the meals I serve than pay me any attention. Although confident their subdued behavior has more to do with Ruslan’s punishment than my developing culinary skills, I’m still grateful. This isn’t a life anyone would sign up for, but it’s better than having no life at all.

  The reason for the crew’s good behavior comes to light when I pace closer to the table. There are a lot more females seated around the space usually reserved for men. They’re dressed up in fine threads that make my sweatpants and food-stained shirt stick out like a sore thumb. They must be going out to celebrate. The last time they were this dressed up was Christmas Day. It’s not often celebrated here, but the newer, hipper generation is slowly reviving old traditions.

  There’s no traditional holiday this month, but I guess any reason to celebrate is a good reason... unless you’re the help. The only gift Eda and I got for Christmas this year was permission to head to bed earlier than usual. I got eight hours sleep instead of my standard six. I plan to use my early mark tonight a lot better than I did last month.

  The dreary cloud hovering above my head slips away when a deep voice asks, “What’s on the menu tonight, malysh?”

  After placing one of the bread bowls I’m balancing in the middle of the table, I turn to face the voice. I’m not stunned when I see the smirking face of Wyatt reflecting back at me. He’s the only one game enough to call me ‘baby’ in front of his peers because his veins hold the same DNA as Asher’s. He is his little brother.

  “The cooks were set to make ukha.” He pulls a face that makes me smile. Ukha is a broth-like soup filled with fish. Tonight’s fish of choice was catfish, making the dish even less appealing. “But Eda and I convinced them to make pirozhkis. Growing men need lots of meat, potatoes, and carbs, not smelly fish slops.”

  Wyatt rubs his tummy in agreement before stealing a breadstick out of the basket. “And dessert?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I have the night off. Once dinner is served, I’m free to go.”

  His whistle rustles my hair. “Nice. Does Asher know about this?”

  I freeze, unsure why it matters if Asher is aware. He didn’t grant my absence, but I put in the hard work the past month that led to Eda and I being awarded a few hours off this evening, so why is Asher’s permission needed? I follow his rules to the letter; extra governing is not required.

  Before I can answer Wyatt, a voice at my side answers on my behalf, “I’m aware.”

  Asher slips into his chair at the head of the table before jerking his chin up, requesting for me to pass him the bread bowl I’m grasping. They’re the first two words he has spoken to me since our exchange last month. It’s not like we’re purposely avoiding each other. He’s asleep when I sneak out in the mornings—thankfully alone—and nowhere to be seen when I go to bed each night. Except for crossing paths here in the dining room, I haven’t seen him, much less had the chance to speak to him.

  It’s probably for the best. Things have been a little muddled for me since Farah played the video from the day of my mother’s funeral. I remember laying my mother to rest, but I don’t recall the rest of the events that occurred that day. How can memories just up and vanish like that? It isn’t that I was too young to remember; I was twelve when she passed, but that day and many that followed are blank.

  I’m snapped back to the present when someone asks, “And you’re okay with it?” Wyatt’s question is for Asher, not me.

  Asher plucks a bread roll from the bowl I’m clutching for dear life before raising his eyes to mine. For how icy his gaze is, you wouldn’t expect my body to respond on the other end of the scale. I’m hot and sticky, my thighs pressing together. My emotions must be crazy this month, because I’m certain the last time he looked at me like this was seconds before he had my knees buckling from the meekest brush of his thumb. That can’t be the case, surely. He hates me—doesn’t he?

  After taking in my blushing neck and parted lips, Asher asks, “You’re not going anywhere, are you?”

  Although he talks around a chunk of bread in his mouth, I can’t miss the superiority in his tone. His usual deep timbre is accented with ownership. It pushes steel rods into my wobbly thighs, making them sturdy enough to withstand the most brutal blow. After what our mothers endured, I’ve always hated the thought of being owned, and Asher knows that.

  “No, I’m not going anywhere.” I shift my head to the side to hide my eye roll. “It’s not like I have anywhere to go.”

  My last words are only for my ears, but I’m certain Asher hears them, because a pompous grin tugs his lips even higher. “Then I don’t have a problem with it. She knows the rules and what will happen if she doesn’t abide by them, so what do I have to be worried about?” His question isn’t for me either. Both his eyes and his words are for his brother.

  I can’t hide this eye roll, so I just releas
e it, dump the bread bowl on the table with a clatter, then leave the dining room before Asher can reprimand me for being disobedient. I don’t need to hear his scold to know of its arrival, though; I feel it burrowing into the back of my head.

  The dinner schedule follows the same routine it does every night. It’s a smooth, easy transition even with the table having a more fussy audience than usual. The female portion of the crowd isn’t as pleased by the chef’s decision to bake pirozhkis. They’re a little high in fat and are messy to eat while wearing a ballgown, so I can understand their disdain, although I don’t think it excuses their rudeness. From how high-strung they are, I doubt even the highest quality meal would have leashed their vicious tongues. They’ve been giving me and Eda hell all night, and they’re not the least bit remorseful about it.

  “Stop flirting with the help, Wyatt. It makes you look desperate.”

  He isn’t flirting. He was merely being polite when Eda’s removal of his plate made his butter knife topple to the floor. He kindly collected it for her instead of making her set down the two dozen dirty dishes she was wrangling to gather it herself.

  “Thank you.” I accept the dirty knife from Wyatt before spinning to face Eda. “Why don’t you head into the kitchen while I gather the rest of the dishware?”

  She looks like she wants to argue, but the assurance in my eyes keeps her from arguing. She hasn’t stopped shaking all evening, so more than a dropped knife is bound to happen. Furthermore, I’d rather endure a few more minutes of work than have her ridiculed more than she has already been tonight.

  When the worry in Eda’s eyes triples, I settle it. “It’s fine. I’ll be right in. There are hardly any dishes left to gather.”

  With a reluctant nod, she balances her stack of dirty plates on her slim hip before pivoting around. Her blonde hair swishes low on her back when she races for the servants’ entrance. I wait for her to be engulfed by the blackness before slipping Wyatt’s knife into my pocket. With it being the only cutlery left on the table, I don’t want it slipping off the greasy plates for the second time.