Wicked Mafia Prince (A Dangerous Royals Romance, #2)(32)

I feel him near.

My breath speeds as something soft presses to my cheek, lightly, quickly, then gone. I open my eyes.

He pulls away with the strangest look—a mixture of grief and joy. “You remember.”

His gaze falls to my lips. He lifts his finger, but I’m too fast—I grab it, bend it, threatening to break it. I know four ways to break this finger, and they array in my mind in order of pain. I squeeze, feeling the delineation of bones, horrified at the knowledge inside me.

Now he just looks happy. “You remember.”

A dark feeling comes over me. “What happened after she got the ring back? What’s the rest of the story?”

He breaks eye contact.

“No.” I squeeze his finger. “Tell me the rest.”

“Will you break my finger, Tanechka? Do you feel it? Just a twist.”

“Tell me.”

“Or you could break it at the middle joint.”

I push away his hand. “Tell me the rest.”

“You found the owner. She was happy to get it back.”

“There’s more.”

“Do I look like a psychic? I can’t predict people’s futures.”

“The woman who owned it—is she…okay?”

He gets a helpless look.

Everything in me clenches like a fist. “Tell me the rest.”

“Tanechka,” he whispers.

“Did I hurt her?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Please,” I beg. “Please.”

His look tells me everything.

I hurt her. Maybe killed her.

A seasick wave rolls through my belly. I dive my hand into my pocket, fumbling for my prayer rope. I clutch it like a lifeline.

“I need to know.” My voice is gravelly, as though dredged up from the rocky depths. “Tell me!”

He shakes his head.

“You wanted me to remember. Tell me.”

“You won’t understand.”

My throat feels so thick, I can barely get the words out. “I killed her.”

“Tanechka.”

“Get away from me!” I spring up and begin to run, feet sinking into the soft sand, frantic, pumping my arms, trying to go faster, faster, to outrun everything. I hear him panting behind me. He grabs me from behind and I plant myself, use his momentum to throw him over my shoulder, then I pivot the other way, sand spraying.

Again he comes after me and this time he tackles me, bringing us both down. He rolls, taking the impact with his big body, holding me tightly.

I gasp for my breath as he flips us, him over me now.

“I killed her.”

The weight of him presses me into the soft sand, cool and rough on my cheek. “Shhh,” he says, “you’re okay.”

“I’m not okay.”

“You just need to remember who you are. You need to be yourself again.”

“I’d rather die.”

He holds me tight, crushing me with the violence of his emotion. “I won’t let you. Not again.”

“I killed a person.” The knowledge is a wound inside. There’s something warm in my chest, growing so fast I think it might break my ribs. I’m gasping for air, and suddenly the thing in me breaks and I’m sobbing—huge, heaving sobs.

He holds me, strokes my hair. “Shh.”

“How can God forgive a person like me?”

“Tanechka.” He strokes my hair.

I try to push him away, but he won’t let go. I sob in his hateful arms. “I’m unforgivable.”

“Never, lisichka. You’re brave. You’re beautiful.”

I sob quietly, bereft.

“I wish I could take this pain from you.” He gasps his words into my hair, clutching me to his breast. “I would die for you a million times.”

“No. It’s right that I suffer.”

“No, Tanechka.”

“I feel like I’m moving so far beyond God’s love. So far. Even when I wandered the wilderness with no memory, I didn’t feel as lost as I do now. I’m truly in the cold now.”

“Let me warm you.”

“It’s right that I should have this agony. It is right that I should know the sweetness of God’s love only to have it taken from me.”

“Stop with the God stuff! Forget God! God forgot you. He abandoned you to hell before you could even walk. God doesn’t deserve you.”

“Get away from me!” I push him off. I don’t run this time; I walk back to the car. He’ll take me back to the flat. At least there I can be alone. I run my fingers over the familiar shape of my prayer rope, knot to knot, to the tassel at the end, representing the glory of the heavenly kingdom. He comes up beside me after a few minutes with our picnic basket.

“She was an assassin, you know. The woman you tracked through the ring. You saved lives by killing her.”

“It’s not for me to pass judgment, or to punish her.” I stand by the car. He’ll take me back to the flat. I’ll bide my time. As soon as I’m able, I’ll get away from this man. I’ll save the virgins. Then I’ll go home.

“She was a killer,” he says.

“You understand nothing.” I practically spit out the words.