Page 58 of Then We Shatter

“Oh… Oh, dear,” Emily squeaks and hurries out of the room as I continue to shred my dress.

I arch an eyebrow at Vivienne. “Would you be a darling and help me cut my way out of this hideous thing?”

Vivienne whimpers. “I should… I should go and…”

When she disappears after the housekeeper, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was off to pack her bags.

Only Alexei remains, arms folded over his chest and his expression impassive as he watches me slice through more layers until I can see my feet. Kicking off my shoes, I imagine Killian watching from a corner of the room, cheering me on. “You’re a mad, psycho bitch, Kitty. It’s why I love you.”

I swallow back the lump in my throat. Stupid durak for getting himself killed.

My hands can’t move fast enough to cut the skirt from the bodice and I nick myself more than once. The torn shreds of ivory chiffon and lace are soon stained red, but I keep slicing and tearing.

When the skirt is reduced to a single layer with a high split to expose my bare, recently-waxed legs, I long for something else to cut. What else can I do to defile the mannequin Eric thinks he’s purchased? Ah, yes.

Grabbing a handful of my hair, I hold the long strands close to my shoulder and run the shears right through. Ribbons of raven-colored silk float to the floor.

I can’t remember a time when my hair didn’t reach the small of my back. Other women envied it. I liked it too, especially when it was bound around Killian’s fist. No one else can be allowed to do that.

As I hack off more locks, a weight is lifted from my shoulders. I’ve never felt so free. Until a man’s arms bind my back against his solid chest, my upper arms trapped by my sides.

“Enough!” Eric barks.

I inhale the scent of musk that reminds me of mothballs and death as I’m lifted off my feet. I’m only an inch or two off the ground when I open up the shears. Still able to bend my elbows, I turn the exposed blade to one of Eric’s wrists.

“I suggest you put me down if you want to live,” I say quietly.

A shadow appears in my periphery. One of Eric’s guards is on my left, firearm raised. On my right, Alexei assumes an identical pose. He’s the one I glare at.

“Seriously?” I demand, staring down the barrel of the gun he’s pointing at me.

If I want to survive this, I have to surrender, but it’s not an easy decision. Survival under these circumstances isn’t necessarily the best option. Do I want a quick death or a painful and protracted one? Am I that desperate to have Eric bleed out over the remnants of the dress he chose for me, just like he chose my shoes, my nails and the shape of my bikini wax.

I apply just a little more pressure to Eric’s wrist when a woman’s laugh breaks the tension. It’s not a polite chuckle. This laugh will be streaking Sasha’s cheeks with tears. My stomach spasms. It’s the same laughter I’d heard the night Kira was gunned down.

I’d been allowed to stay with Yana and Kira when we’d arrived at the training camp, but we had to share a room with Sasha, who was planted for no other reason than to make my life hell. We were amongst a larger cohort of seventeen- and eighteen-year-old recruits, all being tested to our limits. Some with family links to the Bratva were treated well enough, but others like Kira, who had been claimed as the spoils of war, were considered fair game.

Kira had been raped by our guards shortly after we arrived, and while I protected her for as long as I could by seducing Grigor, she never recovered from her trauma. I helped her through her panic attacks, but as our time at the camp drew to a close, I was powerless when a video of her being assaulted was posted online and attracted bids from men willing to pay to do the same. It was inevitable that she’d make a run for it.

When she crept out of the lodge that night, I tracked her as she weaved between the watchtower spotlights. Sasha shadowed us both, and when her laughter cut through the stillness of the night, I rushed for cover and could only watch in horror as Kira’s already broken body was peppered with bullets.

Sasha’s continued peals of laughter bring me back into the room. From one nightmare to another.

“Sestra, you should see your hair!” she snorts. “Oh. My. God. I can’t…” She heaves a breath between more barks of laughter. “I hope your hair stylist can work miracles. But then again… I’m sorry, Eric, but it’s better you know from the start that you’re marrying a sewer rat.”

I’m facing away from the door and twist to sneer at her. “I bet it doesn’t look as bad as yours did when I swapped your shampoo for glue. My only regret is I didn’t put some in your mouthwash too.”

“You did me a favor,” she bites back. “Destruction is a chance for rebirth. Look at me now. My hair grew back stronger.”

“As will I,” I warn. “And when I come seeking justice, you’re the first person I’ll seek out.”

“I look forward to that day,” she hisses.

“Shut the fuck up!” snarls Eric. “I don’t want to hear another word from either of you.”

My jaw clenches. I hate being told what to do, and as I fight Eric’s hold, the edge of my blade glides gently across his wrist.

“Fucking bitch!” he yells, snatching his hand away and dripping blood over us both.