Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 113324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
“What happened before this?”
“Are the facts not damning enough? As a boy, I made a decision to kill. And I’ve been doing it ever since.”
I pressed on. “What happened before your father died?”
Sevastyan’s brows drew tight, as if I’d just confounded him. “I . . . I never got this far when I imagined telling you. I always expected you to back away, fear in your eyes.”
Instead, I took a seat on the bed, settling in with my back against the headboard. “Tell me now.”
Looking anywhere but at me, he began, “My father was violent when he drank. My earliest memories are of blocking blows. He was a massive man, with these fists . . . they were unyielding. They were weapons.”
His earliest memories? The idea of Sevastyan as a little boy, abused by the man who should’ve been protecting him from harm, burned inside my brain.
I remembered his words: I am singularly suited to fighting, always have been. Paxán had witnessed him taking a beating and had puzzled how someone so young could continue to rise.
Sevastyan had been able to take blow after blow—because he’d been so used to them.
Oh, God. Trying for a steady tone, I said, “Please go on.”
“He considered himself a disciplined man, bragging to others that he only drank when it was dark out. Which meant he never stopped during the Siberian winters. Even now, I hate winter. Autumn just as much.”
“Why?”
“It will always be a time of tension for me, a season to anticipate pain. Each day the sun sets sooner. Anticipation can be as hard as enduring.”
All of this had been going on during these fall weeks that I’d shared with him? And I’d never known what deep-seated pain he’d been battling. “Was your mother with you?”
“For a time, but she couldn’t protect us from him. She died two winters before he did. Supposedly she fell down those same stairs. A tragic accident, they said. Yet I have no doubt he pushed her. He just left her body there, mottled with bruises, cast away like garbage. Dmitri found her the next morning. He was too young to handle that sight, was inconsolable.”
Who could handle seeing something like that at any age?
“Though I loved my mother dearly, I remember being angrier about my brother’s suffering than I was sad over her passing.”
“I’m so sorry.” Sevastyan had lost his mother at ten. How much of her abuse had he and his brothers witnessed before then? “Please tell me about the night your father died.”
I saw the exact moment Sevastyan decided to step off the trestle; he swallowed thickly. “My father knew all of his sons’ hiding places inside the manor. No matter how quiet we were, he would find us, seeming to delight in our fear. So my brothers and I often hid outside when he was drunk.”
Now I knew why Sevastyan hated surprises. Now I understood why he’d nearly gone ballistic when Maksim revealed that “quiet was rewarded.”
“The last night I saw my brothers as boys, I was scarcely twelve. Maksim was eleven and Dmitri seven. Over the years, we’d all suffered concussions, broken limbs and ribs.”
How casually Sevastyan related that—life-threatening abuse reduced to background information.
“Yet on this night, my father’s rage seemed even sharper than usual. Though it was the dead of a Siberian winter, we had no choice but to flee outside.” Sevastyan’s eyes went vacant, as if he was reliving it. “I dressed Dmitri as warmly and as quickly as I could, then we waded through snow to reach the closest outbuilding, a drafty toolshed. We waited there, freezing for hours, staring at the shelter of our home. The manor was aglow with light, the windows fogging from the warmth inside. Our family had such wealth, but we were about to die of exposure.”
I could imagine the scene so clearly: three traumatized boys yearning for that brightly lit manor, while fearing the monster within it.
“When Dmitri’s lips started turning blue, I knew I had to go inside, to see if the old bastard had passed out. . . .” Sevastyan’s eyes flashed toward me. “I don’t want to remember any of this. I never did! I’ve never told another about this night.”
“Please, trust me with this.”
Seeming to steel himself, he began again, confronting this agony for me. “I hadn’t gotten past the kitchen before he spotted me. I ran, but my legs were so stiff from cold it was like my feet were trapped in quicksand. He caught me, repeatedly bludgeoning my face. One of my eyes swelled shut, and I could barely see from the other.”
Sevastyan had started sweating, his chest sheening with it. Was he aware that his own fists were clenched till his knuckles were white? I wanted to touch him, soothe him, but feared he’d go silent.
“He demanded to know where his other sons were, vowed he’d beat me to death if I didn’t tell him. Somehow I managed to get loose, fought my way up the stairs. On the landing, he caught me again.”
Eyes watering, I whispered, “Go on.”
“For the first time in my life, I did more than brace for a blow. I . . . I hit back.” Even after all these years, Sevastyan’s tone was filled with astonishment. “He was stunned, but hurt too. I was big for my age—and all of the sudden my fists felt unyielding. I’d never struck another, not even Maksim in play. When my father recovered from his shock, his gaze turned lethal. I knew he was about to kill me.”
“What happened then?” My heart was in my throat.
“Years’ worth of rage welled up inside me, and I . . . beat him. Over and over. He’d backed to the edge of the stairway, swaying there unsteadily. Our eyes met. I’ll never forget the uncanny feeling I had at that moment—I knew this was exactly what had happened to my mother. He’d beaten her, driving her to the brink. Stranger still, he . . . he registered my comprehension. And he had this bloody smirk as he said, ‘You’ll grow up to be just like me. Whenever you look in the mirror, you’ll see my face.’ The idea was so horrific—I launched my fist, knowing he would fall, hoping he would die. He snapped his neck against the first-floor wall.” Sevastyan slid another glance at me.