Defiant. Sweet. Alluring.
A business deal gone wrong brought me to her doorstep.
She's everything I shouldn't want; everything I was against after watching my mother's obsession destroy her.
Still, I can't stop myself from craving her.
I should know...
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nineteen years ago
"Why do you keep coming here?" The slurred words filled my ears as I mopped the dried vomit stuck to the floor. "I tried to kill you before. Do you think I couldn't do it again?"
It was ten in the morning, and Mom was already drunk. I couldn't remember the last time she was fully sober. Or nice. Now, she was always so angry and mean.
"Don't ignore me, you brat!" She snapped, tossing her half-empty bottle of beer at me. The alcohol dulled her aim, and the bottle crashed into pieces at my feet instead of hitting my head like she intended.
I sighed, wiping the sweat off my brow. At this rate, I wouldn't be done with cleaning before the nanny dropped Misha off. "I'm here because you're lonely all the time."
Dad couldn't care less about her, and he hadn't come to see her since he kicked her out. She would have no one if Misha and I abandoned her, too.
"Don't pity me, bastard!" She threw another bottle at me. "And don't look at me with those ugly eyes!"
I dropped my eyes to the floor, dropping to my knees to gather the broken glass pieces into a dustpan.
I had Dad's eyes, and when we were still happy, Mom used to tell me how much she loved them all the time.
"You look just like your father, malysh. My beautiful boy," she would say as she brushed my hair or fed me.
Now that Dad didn't like her anymore, she hated looking at my eyes, and she called them ugly every time.
I wish I had Misha's eyes. They were just like Mom's, and she didn't complain whenever he looked at her. Maybe she wouldn't hate me much. Maybe she wouldn't have tried to set me on fire.
It was all her fault. I hated her.
Ever since she came into our lives, Dad stopped caring about Mom. He liked Reina now, and he didn't want to look at Mom anymore, even though he used to call her beautiful all the time.
I curled my hands into fists, wishing I could do something, but Dad never listened to me anymore. He was always busy, and the only time he paid much attention to me was during my lessons I shared with Viktor.
"Of course, you're a monster, too. Ha!" Mom burst into hysterical laughter. "I knew you would ruin everything. Stop getting your evil blood on my floors, brat!"
Blood?
I stared down at my hands, and my eyes widened. Blood! So much of it. It dripped from my fingers, staining the piece of glass I curled my fist around, and painting the floors red.
I stared at the deep cut in the center of my palm, pain slowly seeping in. "What do I do?" I asked Mom, who'd finally gotten off the couch and was approaching me. "There's so much blood!"
