Even so, I don’t move to brandish it. Yet. Sweat drips down my spine as I keep walking, tucking the weapon against my skirt.
I almost miss the moment he stops, disappearing through a doorway.
I have a second to glance inside before my toes brush the threshold after him. It’s small. Narrow. We’re even more secluded from the others, judging from how little sound reaches here—just the buzzing of electricity feeding the lights above.
The room itself doesn’t contain much, obscuring his reason for bringing me here. There is a couch in the corner, composed of battered brown leather. A small table is across from it, positioned before a sight that makes fresh hope rise up my throat—dust-streaked windows overlooking a sea of trees. Finally. It’s dusk, I think. Early evening? Apart from the glimpse of moonlight, the windows themselves look wide enough to break or escape from.
I only need a chance…
“Look at me.”
His voice casts a spell over my body, banishing any thought of escape. My limbs jerk, maneuvering without input from my brain. Against my own will, my head swivels, bringing into focus the lone figure standing near the center of the room.
Up this close, it’s even more stark how different he is from the man in my memories. Different from the figure I faced just a few days ago, even—a rival who barged into my family home under the pretense of attending my debutante ball.
This Donatello does nothing to disguise who he is at his core. A tortured man. A bleeding man. An empty soul.
“I want to hear you say it…” He trails off, laughing to himself.
The coldness of the wall against my back is a shock before I even register backing away—but I didn’t move toward the doorway like I should. A few feet of space separate me from it, more than enough for him to cover in a single stride. I’m trapped as he moves to block my only path.
“I want to see it on your face for myself,” he says, amending his request. “The happiness. The satisfaction. After all, this is what you wanted, isn’t it?”
His stress on that word paints a morbid picture. This. Vincenzo dead, and my father at his throat.
Is it?
The question is so callous I can’t even decide how I feel. Insulted? Though if I had to ask myself a better question, I doubt I could answer it either—why did I leave my home in the middle of the night to find him? Why did I go to Havienna alone? Why?
My head hurts, so rather than think, I watch him. It’s surprisingly easy to meet his gaze without flinching, as long as there’s a sizable distance between us. Every yard brings clarity. Bravado. I can comfort myself with the lie that he won’t touch me.
He won’t…
“You hate me, fine. I deserve it,” he admits in a growl. “But Vincenzo? Did he deserve what your father did to him? A bullet to the fucking head. Did he deserve that?”
I look away, my face on fire. It’s a cruel line of attack, but I humor it with an honest answer, anyway, at least to myself. No. Vin didn’t deserve what happened to him.
While my captor has been vague as to the details, I can guess. Mischa, assuming Donatello was behind the assault on Ellen and Eli, attacked him out of revenge. Sweet Vincenzo with the crooked glasses and wry smile…
It’s hard to even fathom that he might be dead. Donatello’s betrayal darkened some memories of my past, but not all of them. The ones starring Vin still stand out, filled with mirth and warmth, untouched by hate. Tears prickle my eyes at the thought of them. My old birthday parties. Our petty squabbles that always ended amicably in the end. All of those years we spent together, playing as closely as any real siblings...
It kills me that Mischa could have been responsible for what happened to him—but another emotion quickly seeps into my chest, dulling the pain. Anger. It’s a soothing balm that eases my own guilt, directed solely at the man before me.
Vincenzo’s death or otherwise isn’t my fault.
And only a coward would use that to negate everything else.
“Ah, little hellcat…” Donatello cocks his head as a low, gravelly sound resonates through his throat. A laugh? Or a pained groan. “You think I’m pathetic for mentioning him.” He nods as if I spoke out loud, and I can’t help it. My eyes swivel toward him narrowed with alarm.
The knowing tilt to his head is the same way he used to look years ago, while accusing me of ignoring a chore or stealing a treat with no other shred of evidence. He only had to see my face and know. To him, I always was an open book.
“Oh yes.” He laughs again. “You’re brave, I’ll give you that. But while you may be silent, your face alone is enough to—” He breaks off, as his expression shifts too quickly for me to track. Horrified? He staggers as if struck, his eyes widening and narrowing in quick succession. When I finally peg the emotion twisting his mouth into a snarl, it’s already too late.
Rage.
The next second, he’s across the room, his outstretched fingers aiming for my throat. I go rigid. The air in my lungs escapes in a single gasp, and all I can do is watch him.
And wait.
His anger is a wild, ravaging thing, almost musical in nature. The creeping crescendo of a haunting melody that comes from nowhere, as much as a surprise to the person performing the piece as it is to the listener. There is no rhyme or reason to it.
Just pure violent emotion.
“Your face…” His chest heaves as he flicks my chin with the pad of his thumb. I flinch, but he does it again, sloppily, scraping delicate flesh with his nail. And again, applying more and more pressure until I finally meet his gaze.
His eyes flicker as if he’s reading my thoughts word for word. I’m that vulnerable to him.
“Fuck…” He inhales through his teeth as a realization dawns over his face, transforming the frown into a gaping, formless shape. “I thought you might have done it out of hate. Implicated me on purpose. All for revenge. Revenge. Revenge!” His voice grows more bellicose with every word, bellowing throughout the room untamed. The look in his eyes is what sends ice through my veins, though. Wide, staring, angry, flashing irises, and dilated pupils. It’s like he’s demanding something from me. Pleading for it.
But I can’t give it. Even worse, my own eyes water in response, confusing me further. I don’t know what he wants.
“But it wasn’t that, was it?” The pad of his finger shakes, grazing over my mouth. He presses hard against my bottom lip, bringing his taste against my tongue. Blood, and violence, and accelerant. A cough rips up my throat, silenced as he slams his palm against my mouth entirely, sealing it shut.
“You don’t want revenge,” he croaks, seemingly alarmed by the fact. “No. No… You don’t even know what you want, do you? You’re just a child. You’re just a fucking child. Fuck!”
He lets me go, bracing himself against the nearest wall. His shoulders heave, his body shaking, a low sound ripping from his throat. At first…
I think it’s sobbing—until I catch that telltale wavering note that identifies it for what it really is. Laughing. Uncontrolled, hysterical laughing.
“You’re a little girl in a world of wolves,” he grates in between the unstable notes. “Fuck. You probably don’t even know why you came to me, do you? For a pat on the head? A goodnight kiss? I fucking sold you!”