Stolen Heir (Brutal Birthright, #2)

by Sophie Lark

“Spokoynoy nochi malen'kaya shlyukha,”

I’m realizing more and more how brilliant this girl is. She channeled a portion of her own spirit, her own bliss, and she brought it to life for everyone else to see. She made me feel it. Me, who never feels happiness, let alone pure joy.

“We’re taking her on field trips now?” he says. “I’ll take her to fucking Mars if I feel like it,” I reply.

We’ve suffered, learned, and triumphed by each other’s sides. It’s a bond that only soldiers know.

“Words are not results,”

As I’m heading for the door, he croaks, “Do you work for her father?” “No,” I say. “Just a patron of the arts.”

I’m not a good person, either.

My god, seeing something I created . . . it was so unlike performing in the ballet. It was like watching my own dream, full and vibrant and real. I couldn’t breathe.

creating something totally unlike anything I’ve done before. Not the product of the old Nessa, but of the new Nessa, a girl in progress, one growing and changing by the moment, in ways I never would have if I’d stayed at home.

And now I’m laying here, not able to sleep until I hear his car in the drive. Because wherever gangsters go, it’s never safe. There’s always a chance that this is the night they won’t come home.

“He’s fine,” Mikolaj says. “I just broke his arm.” A loose interpretation of the term “fine,” but much better than I feared.

“People like that don’t learn without consequences,”

He runs his hand through his ash-blond hair, smoothing it back from his face. It falls down again immediately. It never stays in place. It’s Mikolaj’s only tell when he’s nervous. Otherwise you’d never know.

This is both the most terrifying thing I can imagine, and the only thing that could give me hope.

I’m not tough and resourceful. I’m not brave. I’m afraid of getting hurt. Physically, and in a deeper, more lasting way.

Every time Mikolaj speaks to me, every time he even looks at me, he’s throwing a tiny thread of spider silk around me. Each one is so thin and light I don’t notice them. When we dance together, when he kisses me. When he even looks my way . . . I had no idea how entangled I was becoming. What frightens me is how much further this could go.

Everything that’s happened so far between us has been by accident. What if I were to sink into this intentionally? How deep is this well? I feel like I could fall down into it forever. So far that I’d never see the sun again.

The first time I saw his face, I thought it was sharp and cruel. Now I think it’s nothing short of devastating. It devastates my notions of what I thought was handsome before.

I don’t think he wanted this connection between us any more than I did. It happened all the same. It’s real. I don’t think I could sever it if I wanted to.

I cringe, picturing it. Would I feel at home there now? Or would I lay in that ruffled, narrow bed and think about the smell of stone and oil paint, dust and citrus, and the masculine scent of Mikolaj himself. I know the truth already. I’d miss this dark, old house, and the even darker man inside. I would feel drawn back here like one of Dracula’s victims, bitten and infected and compelled to come home.

Is it good to feel ensnared by a man? Probably not. This is probably sick and wrong on a hundred levels. But it’s powerful and real all the same. I can’t fight it. I don’t know if I even want to.

All this time he’s been staring into my eyes, unblinking, infinitely patient. Waiting for me to make my choice. There’s no choice to make. It already happened, without me knowin...

it’s gasoline on an open flame. I’m the wood, he’s the accelerant. No matter how much we burn, we’re never used up.

She’s like an animal caught in a snare. The more she calls out, the more it ignites my hunger.

I used to feel about sex like I felt about sleeping—necessary, but a waste of time.

A metamorphosis has taken place. What Nessa is now, I can’t be certain. She’s still changing, not fully formed. What I see is beautiful. Some things are the same—her kindness, her creativity. She was a running stream, sparkling in the sunshine. But her water runs deeper by the day. She’s becoming a lake, and then an ocean. I see her, and she sees me. I was death, and she was life. I thought I’d had stolen her, brought her down to the underworld. All the while she was waking me up. Stirring the blood in my veins. Breathing air into my lungs.

I’m so struck by the sight of her, the connection between us,

Her every movement is beautiful, she can’t help it.

There’s only one way to win. But there are several ways to lose.

“Even right at the end, no matter how far ahead you might be, when you think your victory is assured, you can still lose. Sometimes because of the tiniest imperfection in the cloth. Or by your own fault. Because you got distracted.”

It’s like mainlining heroin. In this house, I’m always intoxicated. I have to get away from it before I can look at anything with a sober mind.

“I’m just the maid.” “You’re not a maid,” I say. “You’re my friend.”

It’s a dark and gloomy day. The sky is as flat and gray as a chalkboard, the air biting cold. The wind blows the last of the dried leaves and bits of trash across the street. The season changed. It’s winter now.

Watching the Land Rover leave the yard, carrying Nessa back to her house, is like watching the sun sink below the horizon. The light fades away, and all that’s left in its place is darkness and cold.

I lay awake all night, watching her sleep. In the early hours of the morning, when the light turned from gray to gold, her face glowed like a Caravaggio portrait. I thought that out of all the sights I had ever seen, Nessa was the most beautiful.

Nessa is a pearl, and I’m just the mud at the bottom of the ocean. She’s flawless and pure, talented and smart, while I’m an uneducated criminal. A monster who’s done horrible things.

strangely, I may be the best person to truly appreciate her. Because I’ve seen the ugliest parts of the world. ...

In that moment, watching her sleep, I realized that I love her. Love is the one thing you can’t steal. You can’t create it, either. It either exists or it doesn’t. ...

It will be like a fever dream—real in the moment, but fading away in the light of day. I know I’ve lost her. My emptiness is swallowing me whole.

“And that’s why I love you, brother.” We’ve known each other a long time. Long enough for me to know when he’s lying. The knife cuts through the air between us,

Being stabbed hurts worse than being shot. A bullet is small and quick. A knife is huge. It tears through you, embedding in your body like a flaming brand. You go into shock. You start sweating like crazy, and your knees want to stiffen and collapse beneath you. Your brain demands for you to lay down, to lessen the loss of blood. If I do that, I’m dead.

a “vote of non-confidence.” It has a long tradition, going back to Caesar. The assassination is done this way so that no man will know whose knife struck the killing blow. No single man is the traitor—the death belongs to the group.

Her tears rain down on my face. It’s the only warmth I can feel. All my blood is draining out onto the half-frozen ground.

She’s so, so beautiful. If this is the last thing I ever see, I can die peacefully.

“You’re going to be okay,” she promises me. Probably not, but I won’t argue. I have to tell her something, while I still have time. “Do you know why I sent you away?” I ask her. “Yes,” she sobs. “Because you love me.” “That’s right,” I sigh.

I promise you. Cyrus is a wizard. He could stitch up Swiss cheese.”

I’ve never felt that kind of violent anger before. I don’t lose my temper. I don’t have murderous thoughts. I don’t even kill spiders when I find them in the house. But if Mikolaj dies . . . I won’t be a pacifist anymore.

“We all have to choose where our loyalties lie,” Klara says. “Mikolaj chose you.” Yes, he did. And I chose him, too. I was only minutes away from my family’s house. I turned around and ran back to him. I knew he was in danger, because of me. I had to help him. Will I make the same choice, once he’s safe?

I’m not just a sweet, simple girl. I feel things deeply. I have a well of passion inside of me—for things that are beautiful, and for things that are broken

We’re only just scratching the surface of this bond between us. I want to dive all the way in. I want to lose myself in him, and find myself all over again—the real me.