Page 89 of Twisted Enemy
“Pyotr will marry your sister on Thursday, at St. Basil’s.”
Bile slicks my throat, turning my words mean. “What? Not tonight?”
“Even Pyotr couldn’t get them moving that fast. Forty-eight hours is fine. You have time to come home and do your duty.”
All of this is insane—Mam acting like Da didn’t collapse just hours ago, like she didn’t run me out of the territory, like a shotgun wedding for Breagha was always in the cards. “Myduty?” I finally choke out.
“As your sister’s matron of honor. Breagha was your attendant. You should do the same for her.”
I don’t try very hard to smother my outraged squawk. “Let me guess,” I say. “You’ve already ordered your white dress as mother of the bride. That was the first call you made.”
“You only say nasty things like that to hurt me.”
I say them because they’re true. My mother wore white on my wedding day with the full intention of drawing every eye in the room. But arguing with her now will only feed the unholy compulsion that forces her to become the center of attention in every room she’s ever entered.
Instead, I say, “I have no intention of doing anything to legitimize that farce of a wedding. You already forced one of your daughters to the altar against her will. If you do that to Breagha, I’ll be the first to stand and object. I will never hold my peace.”
“You selfish little slut! Pyotr says the Russian church doesn’t give anyone a chance to object.”
Of course they don’t.
Mam goes on: “Your sister needs you, Katie. Your clan needs you. Two days is all I ask. Come help her prepare for her wedding.”
“I’ll burn in hell before I’ll spend a night under the same roof as Pyotr Tarasov.”
“Well you’re in luck then. Pyotr is home with his own family. They have traditions as well. He won’t see Breagha again till Thursday.”
Mam is right. My sister needs me—just not in the way my mother believes.
“Katie?” she pushes.
“I’ll think about it.”
“You egocentric, narcissistic twat. You never consider anyone but yourself!”
“Charming, Mam. You’re truly convincing me to change my mind.” I end the call before she can question my sarcasm.
Cole eyes me calmly as I jam my mobile into my pocket. I think about what I snapped at my mother.You already forced one of your daughters to the altar against her will.
I should tell him I don’t feel that way anymore. Our arranged marriage has become something I never imagined. I owe him that. But before I can speak, he asks, “They’re forcing Breagha?”
I nod, because my throat is suddenly too tight for me to manage words.
“She needs you,” he says.
Frustration and helplessness meld into anger. “What? Did you and Mam plan all this together?”
He doesn’t dignify that with an answer. Instead, he asks, “Am I taking you back to Baltimore this afternoon?”
“You aren’t taking me anywhere,” I say. “You’re going upstairs and lying down.”
“I’m not tired.”
I ignore him. “And I’m fetching some cold packs for those bruises. After, I’m wrapping you in bandages. Compression will ease the pain.”
“I’m not?—”
“And I’m not listening to any lies you tell me. Upstairs. Now. Or I’ll sic Nilsson on you.”
