Page 62 of Nemesis

He smiles, a cold, deadly thing. “I slit their throats.”

“How much was their blood worth?” The question is selfish, meant only for him and me. As soon as it falls from my lips, our surroundings fade to foggy wisps.

“Nothing,” he breathes, eyes glittering. “Their blood was worth nothing.” I’m not sure if it’s in my head or if his body really does shift a little closer to mine.

“She has a bit of a point, brother,” my uncle voices in an obvious attempt to de-escalate the situation.

I snap free from Vasiliy’s consuming gaze. Angling a brow at my father, I wait, searching for any indication that he’ll back down. But he’s a stubborn man.

“It’s not how things are done.”

The bottle in my hand tilts back and forth as I consider my options. The gentle, rhythmic slosh makes me think of beaches I’ve never seen. I didn’t get a chance to dig my feet in the sand like they do in the movies, or feel the rolling current of bubbles rush past my ankles.

A throat clears, one of those deep, irritating man sounds meant to draw attention.

If I do concede this battle, some part of me knows I’ll never be privy to information ever again. Does that matter to me?

The bottle tips a touch too far as I come to a decision. Clear, stringent liquid glugs out of the neck, pouring onto the plush carpet below. Only when all the contents have been emptied, do I drop the bottle, which bounces onto the carpet before cracking in two.

“I’m not swayed by temper tantrums,” my father starts, folding his arms. “You can break all the bottles in this house, and it still won’t shift my priorities. This is about your safety, Octavia.”

But my attention lingers on Vasiliy.

All it takes is one soundless look into his twinkling, blue eyes for his hand to rise. A small item flies through the air in an arc—the matchbox I saw him palm from a nearby counter when we first walked in.

I snatch the box from the air, sliding out a thin stick of wood. The two men on the other side of the room lurch forward just as the match hisses, catching a flame. Heat licks my fingers.

Now this is a proper negotiation.

“Do not drop it!” Father booms.

I tilt my head. “Oh, shoot. Is a top-secret safehouse not so secret when it’s catching fire?”

“Octavia!”

My hand lowers, dropping the flame closer to the flammable puddle on the floor. The action causes my uncle to cry out, and a string of what I can only assume to be Russian curses fills the room.

“Morozov, reason with her!” Father snaps at Vasiliy.

The panicked suggestion makes me laugh, and I have to admit, the sound comes out kind of manic in combination with the flame warming my skin.

“Nah. I’m a feminist today,” Vas says with a lazy smirk.

“God Almighty,” my father murmurs to the sky. “This is foolish!”

“I guess I’m a fool.”

Vasiliy steps forward at that, smile flattening. “Watch your words, old man. This will look like a fucking picnic compared to what will happen if you insult her again.”

My fingers loosen around the wood, drawing every eye back to me. “A match can only burn for so long. What’s it going to be?”

A gasp pulls through the air. “Sasha⁠—”

“Fine,” my father finally gives in, voice dissolving into a list of curses.

Pleased with the concession, I lift the match to my lips. With a sharp breath, the glow dissipates into grey smoke. One more ashy deal disintegrating into the office floorboards.

“You know, I used to beg Juliet to give me a baby girl.” My uncle shakes his head in disbelief. “I’m starting to think I should stick to the boys.”