Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 51407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 257(@200wpm)___ 206(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 257(@200wpm)___ 206(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
“Then help yourself!” Rusalka has never raised their voice in my presence. They’ve never come undone with anger the way they are now. “I thought you were happy, Belladonna. I thought we were making progress. I . . .” They run their hands through their short hair. “I need to think. I’m going for a walk.”
My mouth works, but with my throat closing, I don’t get words out before Rusalka is gone. She left me. I shake my head, hard. No, she didn’t leave me. That’s nonsense. That’s my fear talking. She just . . . stormed out in the middle of a conversation that hadn’t even been long enough to be termed an argument. She needed to leave the building entirely because her frustration at me was too overwhelming.
I hate how familiar this feeling of abandonment is. I hate how it instantly shoves me back into a skin I hadn’t even been aware I was shedding. The old urge to hide, to make myself small, is almost overwhelming. I actually start to take off my dress and look for sleeping clothes, mentally trace my path down to the room I haven’t slept in for weeks.
Only to stop short. “What am I doing?” Is Rusalka angry at me . . . or is she angry for me? I don’t know. If there’s a difference, I don’t know how to divine it. Not without asking them. I stare at the door. I have never, not once, pursued a conversation when someone angry at me walked away in a fury. The idea of facing that fear is terrifying on a level I can barely comprehend. But this isn’t my mother, my father, the church community. This isn’t Ruth, who would never yell, but would tell me that she needs time away from me in order to pray away her frustration.
This is Rusalka.
And Rusalka would never hurt me. Not on purpose.
“Fuck this.” I shove open the door and step into the hall.
24
RUSALKA
I’m filled with regret from the moment I leave the room, but that’s still not enough to stop my forward momentum. I’m a fool. I thought we were making progress, that Belladonna might actually want a future with me. I know it’s too fucking soon, that it’s not fair to expect her to have shed a lifetime’s worth of trauma in the span of a few weeks.
But I wanted her to want more for herself than to be an empty womb to be filled in the service of others. I still want that.
The stairs pass in a blur. There’s a roaring in my head that eclipses everything. I’m feeling too much, and it’s my own damned fault. Belladonna is going to think I’m furious at her, when really I’m angry at myself. If I were more ruthless, I wouldn’t worry about what a pregnancy now, for the sole purpose of helping my territory, would do to this woman I only met a few weeks ago but care about far more than I could have dreamed. If I were a better leader, not even that worry would be enough to make me dissuade her. But I don’t want to be a leader who breaks her, even if it serves the greater good.
Except I didn’t say that, did I?
I didn’t tell Belladonna that I care about her and I’m worried about her. I just started yelling at her and then stormed off.
Even now, I’m not thinking clearly. She’s going to think . . . Fuck, I just hurt her terribly, didn’t I? It’s going to reinforce all the awful stuff she’s been so diligent about fighting in her head. Instead of being understanding, I just knocked her feet right out from under her.
I stop short and turn around, intent on returning to actually talk this out instead of letting emotions get the best of me. No matter what I find when I get back to our room—because the room has become ours and I don’t want that to change—we’ll work through it.
But, when I turn around, the hallway isn’t empty. Belladonna is hurrying toward me, her expression intent. Shock stops me in my tracks. “You came after me.”
“You ran away.” She staggers to a stop a few feet from me, her breath coming hard. “I . . . Hold on.” She plants her hands on her thighs. “I just need . . . a second.”
“Take all the time you need,” I say faintly. She came after me. With any of my Insomnior Court, this wouldn’t be notable. We’re all hotheads in our own way when the circumstances arise, but we know one another well enough to know when to let someone walk off some frustration and when distance is only going to make things worse.
But Belladonna isn’t Zhenya or Inna or Danik. She doesn’t have the benefit of years of experience with my temper, slow to anger though I may be. More importantly, in her history, she’s been badgered and belittled and crushed into a smaller version of herself—someone who wouldn’t have the courage to pursue a tough conversation that may not go her way, because nothing ever went her way while she was under the control of toxic people.