I can still smell her.
Kat. That name tastes like blood and bourbon now. She got away, and every damn thing since has been unraveling like thread from a cheap suit. I should’ve locked it down. Should’ve kept her close. Should’ve listened to the part of me that knew she was dangerous.
But I didn’t. And now I’m the one bleeding.
Uncle Boris won’t shut up. Every time I walk into a room, his eyes are already rolling, his mouth already moving. “You’re soft,” he says. “You let her play you.” He doesn’t get it. He never did. Kat wasn’t just a girl. She was a storm. And I thought I could ride it.
Now I’m drowning.
I pour another drink, even though I know it’s a mistake. Boris will smell it on me. He always does. But screw him. He’s the one who brought her in. He’s the one who made her part of
