Page 74 of Cruel Submission

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“Me too.”

We stand there in the garden. The afternoon light going dim through the trees. Her packed bag still on the flagstones between us. My child growing inside her. Debra somewhere in the house with another child that may or may not be mine.

Everything’s a mess. My entire life is one massive fuck-up, and I’ve dragged Mirabel into the center of it.

“Come with me.” I gesture toward the house. “We need to talk. Really talk. No more bullshit.”

She hesitates. I can see her weighing it. Stay and listen, or grab her bag and run.

Please don’t run.

After a long moment, she nods. “Okay.”

I lead her to the sitting room off the main hallway. Small space. Private. No windows overlooking the garden where anyone could see in.

I close the door. Lock it.

She sits on the sofa. Perched on the edge like she might bolt. Her hands twist together in her lap.

I move to the bar cart. “I have water. Coffee. Or—” I eye the bottles lined up. “Something stronger, but you probably shouldn’t.”

“Water’s fine.”

I pour her a glass from the pitcher. Pour myself three fingers of vodka. I need it. My hands are shaking.

I hand her the water. Raise my glass. “Za vas.”

She doesn’t toast back. Just watches me knock back the vodka in one swallow. The burn does nothing to steady my nerves.

I set the glass down. Turn to face her. “I need to come clean. About everything. No more secrets. No more lies.”

She nods. Waiting.

Fuck, I don’t know how to do this. Where do I even start?

At the beginning, mudak. With the thing that broke you.

“When I was thirteen, I killed my younger brother.”

Her eyes go wide. I keep talking before I can lose my nerve.

“His name was Mikhail. Mishka. He was ten.” The words scrape out. “We were playing with my father’s guns. I thought the safety was on. It wasn’t. I accidentally pulled the trigger and—”

I stop. Breathe.

“He died in my arms. Blood everywhere.”

Mirabel’s hand goes to her mouth.

“My mother never forgave me. Every look said ‘murderer.’ Said I killed her favorite.” The old anger surfaces. Hot. Bitter. “She withered away. Faded. Six months later, she walked into the ocean. They found her body three days later.”

“Arkady—”

“So I killed them both.” I cut her off. “Mishka and my mother. Two deaths on my hands before I turned fourteen. And my father—” I spit the word. “Blamed me for everything. Punished me. Made sure I knew exactly what I’d taken from him.”

I move to the window. Stare out at nothing. Can’t look at her while I say the rest.