Stolen Heir (Brutal Birthright, #2)

by Sophie Lark

This book is for my fairytale lovers. For those who feel the call of the dark, the monstrous, and the mysterious. For those who know they could never be happy with Prince Charming… and want to meet the Beast 5535856640

It isn’t true that twins can read each other’s minds. But I do know my sister. I know her very well.

“They’ll kill you.” “Not if I kill them first,” I say grimly.

If I take a single step inside, I’ll be walking on it. Somehow, that paralyzes me. I want to run to Anna, but I don’t want to walk through her blood. Foolishly, insanely, I feel like that would hurt her. Even though she’s plainly dead.

I’m feeling a depth of guilt and sorrow that is unbearable. I literally can’t bear it. I feel like it’s tearing away pieces of my flesh, pound by pound, until I’ll be nothing but a skeleton—bare-bones, without muscle, nerve, or heart. That heart is calcifying inside of me.

When I first saw Anna’s body, it beat so hard that I thought it would burst. Now it’s contracting slower and slower, weaker and weaker. Until it will stop entirely.

Anna is better than me in every way. She’s smarter, kinder, happier. I often felt that when we formed in the womb, our characteristics were split in two parts. She got the better part of us, but as long as she was close by, we could share her goodness. Now she’s gone, and all that light has gone with her. All that’s left are the qualities that lived in me: focus. Determination. And rage.

It’s my fault she’s dead, that much is obvious. I should have stayed here with her. I should have watched her, cared for her. That’s what she would have done. I’ll never forgive myself for that mistake.

But if I allow myself to feel the guilt, I’ll put that gun to my head and end it all right now. I can’t let that happen. I have to avenge Anna. I promised her that.

I take every ounce of emotion remaining, and I lock it deep down inside myself. By sheer force of will, I refuse to feel anything. Anything at all. All that’s left is my one objective.

I find him sitting at the bar, laughing and drinking, while my sister has been laying in the ground for seventeen days.

I look around at the postcards pinned to her walls—the Colosseum, the Eiffel Tower, the Statue of Liberty, the Taj Mahal. Places she dreamed of visiting that she’ll never see now.

I just killed a man. I should feel something: guilt, horror. Or, at the very least, a sense of justice. But I feel nothing. I’m a black hole inside. I can take in anything, without any emotion escaping.

I had no fear as I approached Abel. If my heart won’t beat over that, it w...

It’s been forty-one days since Anna died. Each one has been an agony of emptiness. Missing the only person who meant anything to me. The only spot of brightness in my shit life.

I’m probably about to die. Yet I don’t feel afraid. I’m probably about to die. All I can feel is rage that I won’t be able to kill Iwan first.

Butcher. He stands in front of me, eye to eye—his bleached of color by age, and perhaps all the things they’ve seen. They cut into me.

“If you wanted restitution—” “There is no restitution,” I say bitterly. “She killed herself.”

A carousel of thoughts spin around in my head. First, relief that Anna’s revenge is complete. Second, disappointment that it was Zajac and not me who pulled the trigger. Third, the realization that it’s my turn to die. Fourth, the understanding that I don’t care. Not even a little bit.

“Hold out your hand,” he tells me. His men have let go of my arms. I’m free to walk over to the table. Free to put my hand down flat on its surface, fingers spread wide. I feel a strange sense of unreality, like I’m watching myself do this from three feet outside my body.

Zajac picks up the little piece of flesh that was once attached to my body. He throws it on top of Iwan’s corpse. “There,” he says. “All debts are paid.”

I’m driving over to Lake City Ballet, through streets lined with double rows of maple trees, their branches so thick that they almost form an arch overhead. The leaves are deep crimson, drifting down to form crunching drifts in the gutters.

I love Chicago in the fall. Winter is awful, but I won’t mind it if I get to see these brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows a few weeks longer.

To me, my father, brother, sister, and mother are the people who love me and take care of me. I don’t think of them as criminals with blood on their hands.

At first, it seemed like they’d kill each other. Now I can’t imagine Cal with anybody else.

arguing is an Olympic sport for her. Paying her to do it is like paying a duck to swim.

I want us to be close the way that other sisters are, but I always feel like she’s barely tolerating me. Like she thinks I’m stupid.

The problem is, there’s a difference between being good and being great. A lot of people are good. Only a handful are great. The thousands of hours of sweat and tears are very much the same. But the chasm between talent and genius is as wide as the Grand Canyon.

“Director” and “dictator” seem to be synonymous in this industry.

I’m about the most cheerful person you could meet. Not much gets me down.

I’m picturing my family sitting right in the front row, amazed that I could be the sculptor, and not just the clay. Actually impressed with me for once!

My natural inclination is to nod, say okay, and leave. I hate confrontation. But I know if I do that, I’ll hate myself even more later. I have to understand what’s happening here.

That doesn’t bother me at all. Sweat, blisters, broken toenails . . . they’re all as common as Bobby pins around here.

“Alright,” I say, feeling rebellious just by agreeing. “Let’s do it.”

It was extremely unexpected. Like an alliance between Israel and Palestine, or cats and dogs.

I had never seen him show hesitation or weakness. Suddenly, he looked tired. He was only fifty-eight years old, but had been through a dozen lifetimes of blood and toil and struggle.

I had long since lost the ability to feel anything like love. But I felt the fire of a loyalty stronger than love.

This club is indeed a jungle, and I’m its king. The customers pay homage to me without even knowing it, as I drain their wallets drink by drink.

A good bartender is like a juggler and a magician all in one.

It’s like a sign from heaven. But I don’t believe in heaven. Let’s call it a sign from the devil, then.

down on the bar, looking around the club. I love people watching. If I could just sit in the corner, totally invisible, and watch people walk by all night long, I wouldn’t mind that at all.

I don’t like attention myself.

He’s quite beautiful—like a starving angel. But there’s no kindness or friendliness in his face.

No texts or messages from my parents, even though it’s after midnight. It’s funny. They’re so overprotective. But they’re also so busy that they haven’t even noticed I’m gone.

When I make Nessa disappear, it will be like dropping a stone in the ocean. There won’t be a single ripple to show where she’s gone.

All I know is it’s beautiful. She looks effortless, weightless, like a leaf in the wind. I’m watching her with awe. The way a hunter would watch a doe that walks into a clearing. Nessa is the doe. She is lovely. Innocent. Perfectly at place in her natural environment. I’ll send my arrow straight into her heart. That’s my right, as the hunter.

We have a chef who makes every meal look like one those TV commercials where you’ve got orange juice, milk, fruit, toast, pancakes, bacon, and sausages all perfectly arranged like normal people actually eat all of that in a sitting. We’re spoiled. I’m well aware of it.

My sister would be beautiful if she ever smiled. She’s got skin like marble, gorgeous green eyes, and lips as red as her hair. Unfortunately, she has the temperament of a pit bull. And not a nice pit bull—the kind that’s trained to go right for the throat in every encounter.

Maybe he’s right. How can I make great art when I’ve barely experienced anything at all? I’ve been sheltered and babied my whole life. Art comes from suffering—or, at the very least, adventure.

That’s exactly how I like it. I’m the virus that will invade their system unseen and unnoticed. They won’t even realize what’s happened until they’re coughing up blood.