“I knew you’d come,” I tell her, pointing the tip of the bottle at her face. It’s a cruel twist of irony that she’s beautiful.
She blinks, shock painting her delicate cheeks pink.
I stand, approaching her unsteadily. My hand finds that cheek, cradling it against my palm. Her lips part beneath the pressure of my thumb, and I can’t silence a groan. So pink. So pretty.
She could be real…
“Come to laugh at me from hell, Safiya?” I ask her, brushing my lips along her jaw. My brain is a cruel fuck. I can smell her more clearly, how I think she’d smell anyway. Fresh. Sweet. Her warmth is an echo biting through my numb fingers.
It’s the goddamn alcohol that does this to me. Makes me imagine her so damn clearly. Makes me notice things a man like me never should about a woman so young. My Safy…
I cup her chin with one hand and rake the other through her hair—though it’s not like she could run away. She’s paralyzed, this apparition. Her eyes meet mine, so wide. So goddamn bright.
Another groan rips from me as I press my forehead to hers, sensing the small body trembling against mine. She’s afraid of me, this phantom Safiya.
And she should be.
I fist my fingers brutally through the thick strands, drawing her closer. I can hear the air entering her nostrils and leaving her chest in little pants, but even in my head, she doesn’t scream.
Good.
I press her against the wall, inhaling at the way she feels. Small breasts, narrow hips. I cup one against my hand and hiss in amusement. It’s disgusting how slight she is. How delicate.
“You are a sick son of a bitch, Donatello,” I tell myself.
But I can pay for my sins in hell—I’m already on my way there.
“You came to watch me die, Safy?” I open my eyes to find her staring back, but again my own imagination surprises me. Wetness glistens on her cheek, and I swipe my finger against it, marveling at the glistening residue.
Something in my chest clenches, but I force whatever emotion it might be away.
“No!” I growl against the hollow of her throat. “You don’t get to haunt me like this, Safy. I want you to laugh. Smile.” I close my eyes and open them again, expecting it to happen like magic.
Her tortured frown would be replaced by a ghoulish grin. She’d laugh somehow. It’s all in my fucking head; what does logic matter?
But she can’t even give me that. She watches me in horror, her eyes so damn wide, her chest heaving, lips trembling.
And I’m too weak. Too drunk. Too tired.
“You know what is worse than knowing you’re alive?” I ask her, following that sweet scent to the crook of her shoulder. Shamelessly I inhale, keeping her pinned in place—though she doesn’t fight. “Do you?” I laugh, but the sound echoes back like a mongrel’s howl, pathetic and wild. “It’s that you’re so damn beautiful. I wanted to fuck you, Safy. How sick is that?”
It’s a reaction fit for a degenerate. A pathetic fool who failed anyone foolish enough to love him. Over and over again.
“Do you want to know why I did it?” I tell her, a confession admissible only now. Here in Havienna. “Do you?” I murmur against her ear. But she won’t answer even in this form. “Because you would hurt. Losing you would hurt so bad, and that pain would be enough, Safy. Enough to keep me going. Make me fight and kill those bastards where they stood. I would have crumbled without that pain.”
I stroke her delicate jaw and search those eyes for any hint of understanding. More tears fall silently, each one more disarming than the last.
“I loved you so much,” I confess, my throat tight. “So much. You were my little principessa. I would have done anything in the world for you. Anything… But I needed to hate you, Safy. Because if I could lose you, I could survive anything.”
But I was wrong. I didn’t survive what I did to her. All this time, I haven’t been living, just crawling through time, barely coherent enough to witness it passing.
And now with Vin gone…
“I’ll join you soon, the real you.” The little girl who doesn’t belong to Mischa Stepanov. “I’m sorry, Safy. I’m so sorry.”
But, as always, she doesn’t do a damn thing other than watch me, tears streaming from those beautiful eyes. I swipe at them, again startled by how real they feel. How wet.
“It’s the alcohol,” I murmur to myself, laughing.
But curiosity is a twisted fucking thing. I press against her and hiss through my teeth. She feels real, so small that even touching her like this feels dangerous. Like I might break her. Crush her.
And she would deserve it.
“You did it, Safy,” I say. My fingers twitch for that slender neck, but I stop myself, only to laugh. Even against a shadow of her, I hold back, cringing in guilt.
No more. Gritting my teeth, I encircle that column in both hands, forcing her to meet my gaze. Slowly, I squeeze, watching those eyes go bug wide. Her hands fly to mine, clawing weakly, but she doesn’t fight like the real girl would.
She just watches me, sobbing silently, and I realize just what emotion she’s conveying. No hatred.
Just pity.
“You took it all away, didn’t you, Safy?”
I let her go and return to the desk. Grabbing the bottle of lighter fluid, I wrench off the cap and nearly choke at the goddamn smell. I fumble for the matches in my other hand. When I turn around, she’s still watching, her eyes even wider, and God damn me for the observation that crosses my mind—horror on her is so lovely. I hate myself for appreciating that. How perfectly my brain can represent this grown figment of her when I’ve spent years banishing her memory.
“Here’s to you, Safy—” I lift the bottle in a mock salute. Then I upturn it over my
