Page 9 of Black Ledger

Chapter Five

Xeniya Morozova

Age 35

The night glittered, and so did the club, Nemain Manor. As always, it was breathtaking in its violence.

Murals of medieval battlefields stretched across the walls, while rusted suits of armor stood watch from the shadows. The place was a fever dream of romantic gore, devoted to ancient Celtic mythology and the three Goddesses of War.

Deep reds and emerald greens bled through the place, rich and dark like a haunting winter morning.

It suited me perfectly. The club was built for women like me— vengeful creatures pretending to still be human.

But none of it mattered now. It could have been heaven itself, and I still would have wanted to vomit. I still would have wanted to crawl out of my skin.

I had survived torture chambers, rape, and unspeakable violence. But this? Walking back into my old life and seeing all my ghosts felt impossible.

It was like walking willingly into hell with a smile on my face and asking to see the devil by name.

Worst of all, I couldn’t decide what to wear. It felt like a trivial problem—and it certainly was—but my brain clung to it anyway, as if the wrong dress might crumble my house of cards.

Which, of course, was silly.

A dress didn’t matter at all.

Yet I’d tried on nine.

Nine fucking dresses.

But I was running out of time. I needed to be downstairs to greet the Russians, who were due any minute.

Ugh. Fine. The blush one would have to do. I grumbled and shoved my feet into it, pulling the silk up my hips. The blush silk was unassuming and demure.

No one would ever expect a monster to wear it as armor.

It would work.

But I wanted to wear blood red. I wanted to hint at the danger they were letting into their henhouse. I couldn’t.

Besides, red would clash with my hair, which I currently had dyed a cinnamon-red. I was pretending to be Irish, after all.

I needed to fit the part.

Not that the color would keep. Ever since my condition started, my hair didn’t hold hair dye for longer than five days. My time with the Order had turned my hair silver-white, and hair dye refused to cover it normally.

It gave a new meaning to dye-resistant grays.

But the dye would do for now, although I needed to invest in more wigs.

I pulled on my red-bottom designer heels, rushed out of my private suite, and stepped into the elevator. When the doors dinged open, I swept out and ran headfirst into a tall brunette.

Ouch.

“My apologies,” I said in a polished British accent. “I didn’t see⁠—“

My words trapped themselves behind my teeth as my gaze met her bright green eyes.

Veronika Morozova. My younger sister.