Angel’s Cage

Chapter 4

4

Chloe

My stomach is in knots by the time Nikolai returns, the toast I’ve eaten sitting inside like a rock. I know Konstantin is his older brother, the tech genius of the family, and I strongly suspect that the “something” his team has found relates to my situation.

Now that I’ve had a chance to think about it, Konstantin is probably how Nikolai had known all those things about me from the beginning—like the fact that I hadn’t posted on my highly private social media during my month on the run. And he’s also how Nikolai got access to the police files and discovered that they’d been altered to make my mom’s murder look even more like a suicide.

Konstantin and his team must be the “resources” Nikolai mentioned during the car ride here, the advantage he has over Bransford.

Sure enough, Nikolai’s face is grim as he takes a seat on the edge of my bed and clasps my left hand in his strong palm. His touch both warms and chills me. “Chloe, zaychik…” His tone is worrisomely gentle. “There’s something you should know.”

My heart, which was already galloping in my chest, does a backflip. His gaze is no longer that of a stranger; instead, there’s pity in his golden tiger stare.

Whatever he’s about to say is awful, I can tell.

“How much do you know about the circumstances of your conception?” he asks in that same gentle tone. “Did your mother ever talk about it?”

It’s as if an icy wind sweeps through my insides, freezing every cell on the way. “My conception?” My voice sounds like it’s coming from some other part of the room, some other person.

He can’t mean what I think he’s saying. There’s no way Bransford is—

“Twenty-four years ago, your mother lived in California,” Nikolai says quietly. “In San Diego.”

I nod on autopilot. Mom had told me that much. She’d lived all over southern California, in fact. After the missionary couple who’d adopted her from Cambodia were killed in a car accident, she’d gone from one foster home to another until she emancipated herself at seventeen—the same year she’d given birth to me.

“She wasn’t the only one who lived in San Diego at the time,” Nikolai continues. “So did a certain brilliant young politician whose local campaign she volunteered at to get extra credit for her American History class.”

The icy wind inside me turns into a winter gale. “Bransford.” My voice is barely a whisper, but Nikolai hears it and nods, squeezing my hand gently.

“The one and only.”

I stare at him, simultaneously boiling over with emotions and numb. “What are you saying?”

“Your mother tried to commit suicide when she was sixteen. Did you know about that?”

My head nods of its accord. When I was a child, Mom had always worn bracelets and bangles around her wrists, even at home, even while cooking and cleaning and bathing me. It wasn’t until I was almost ten that I walked in on her changing and discovered the faint white lines on her wrists. She sat me down then and explained that when she’d been a teenager, she’d gone through a difficult time that had culminated in her trying to take her own life.

“She said it had been a mistake.” My throat is so tight each word scrapes it on the way out. “She told me she was glad she’d failed because soon after, she learned she was pregnant. With me.”

His eyes turn opaque. “I see.”

He sees? Sees what? Suddenly enraged, I yank my hand out of his grasp and sit up all the way, ignoring the accompanying wave of dizziness and pain. “What exactly are you trying to tell me? What does her suicide attempt have to do with Bransford? Did he try to kill her that time too? Is that his freaking MO?”

“No, zaychik.” Nikolai’s gaze fills with that disconcerting pity again. “I’m afraid that attempt wasn’t staged. But there’s reason to believe that Bransford was responsible. According to the hospital records my brother’s team dug up, your mother had been to the ER twice that year: once for the suicide attempt, and two months earlier as a rape victim.”

A rape victim? I stare at him, black flecks dotting the edges of my vision. “Are you saying Bransford raped her?”

“She never filed any charges nor named her attacker, so we can’t know for sure, but her first ER visit coincided with the last day of her volunteering at the campaign. She never went back after that—and nine months later, almost to the day, she gave birth to a baby girl. You.”

The black dots multiply, taking over more of my vision. “No. No, that’s not… No.” I sway as the room blurs in my vision.

Nikolai’s strong arms are already around me. “Here, lean back.” I’m guided back onto the mound of pillows. “Take a few deep breaths.” His warm palm smooths my hair back from my clammy forehead. “That’s right, just like that,” he murmurs as I attempt to obey, dragging shallow inhales into my unnaturally stiff lungs. “It’s okay, zaychik. Just breathe…”

The dizziness recedes, slowly but surely, and by the time Nikolai pulls back, my brain is functioning again—and beginning to process what he’s told me.

Mom had been raped.

Nine months later, I was born.

I want to throw up.

I want to scrub my skin raw and boil my DNA in bleach.

“She never…” My voice falters. “She never talked about my father. Not even once. And I asked, repeatedly.”

Nikolai nods, watching me with that same unsettling pity.

The words keep coming out of my mouth, like water leaking from a faulty pipe. “She told me it had been a difficult time in her life. She dropped out of high school. Got a job as a waitress and applied for legal emancipation, on account of the pregnancy and all.”

He nods again, letting me work it out on my own—and I do. Because for the first time, so much about my mom makes sense. It had always puzzled me how she’d gotten pregnant because as far as I knew, she’d been the polar opposite of a wild teen. Though Mom had rarely talked about herself, I’d gleaned enough to know she’d been a straight-A student prior to dropping out, too quiet and introverted to go out to parties and flirt with boys. Nor had she displayed any interest in dating as an adult; she’d never brought home a single boyfriend, never left me with a babysitter to go out and have fun. As a kid, I thought that was normal, but as I got older, I realized just how strange it was for a beautiful young woman to close herself off like that.

It was as if she’d taken a vow of chastity… or never recovered from the trauma of rape.

“Do you think…” I swallow the sour bile in my throat. “Do you think he knew? About her pregnancy? About… me?”

I always thought my father had simply walked away from the responsibility, though Mom had never said that outright, only implied it. I figured he’d been a teenager himself, someone who just wasn’t ready to be a parent. But this—this changes everything. Mom might not have even told him of my existence. Why would she have, if he’d raped her?

Except… he has to know now.

Because he killed her and tried to do the same to me.

Oh God.

I barely hold back a surge of vomit.

My biological father is not only a rapist—he’s a murderer.

Nikolai takes my hand in his again, his touch shockingly warm on my icy skin. “I think he had to know,” he says, echoing my thoughts. “Maybe not from the beginning, but later on, for sure.”

“Because he tried to kill us.”

“Yes—and because of the scholarship you got.”

I blink, not comprehending at first. Then his words filter through. “You mean… he paid for my college?”

“Konstantin is tracing the exact source of those funds, but I’m almost certain about what he’s going to uncover.” Nikolai’s eyes are somber on my face. “It was a private scholarship, zaychik, intended for only one recipient: you. Remember how you told me that your friend applied for it and didn’t get it, despite being even more qualified than you? That’s because it was never meant for her. That money was yours all along.”

Fuck. He’s right. My friend Tanisha had been our class valedictorian with perfect SAT scores, but she didn’t get this full-ride scholarship to Middlebury—I did. I even told Nikolai how strange that was. Except…

“I don’t understand. Why would he do that? Why would he pay for my education if he hated me and my mom? If he… planned to kill us?” I can barely utter the last words.

Nikolai squeezes my hand. “I don’t know for sure, but I have a theory. I think your mother contacted him at some point and told him about you. And I think she threatened him. It was likely something along the lines of ‘if you don’t provide the funds for our daughter’s education, I’ll go public with my story.’”

“You think she blackmailed him?”

At Nikolai’s nod, I sink deeper into the pillows, shaking my head. “No. No, you’re wrong. Mom wouldn’t have done that. She’s not—she wasn’t…” To my shame, my eyes flood with tears, my throat closing as a wave of crushing grief catches me off-guard.

“A criminal? A blackmailer?” Nikolai’s deep voice is gentle as his thumb massages my palm in soothing circles. Tactfully, he waits until I get myself under control, then says quietly, “You have to remember, zaychik, she was a mother first and foremost. A single mother who worked as a waitress, whose earnings couldn’t have covered even a fraction of the exorbitant costs of college education in this country. What would you have done to ensure your child’s future?”

I would’ve done whatever I had to—and most likely, it had been the same for Mom.

“If that’s true, why did he wait?” I ask in desperation. Some childish part of me is still hoping that this is all a huge misunderstanding, that my biological father isn’t a total monster. “Why pay for all four years of my schooling and then try to kill us? If he’d already spent the money—”

“It wasn’t about the money. He’s rich enough to have paid for ten illegitimate daughters.” Nikolai’s tone hardens. “It’s about his career. His run for president.”

Of course. The stakes are infinitely higher now, and while some politicians thrive on scandal, Bransford is an all-American icon of middle-class morals and values, with a squeaky-clean reputation that won’t survive this kind of hit.

Still, assuming all of this is true, there’s something that doesn’t fully make sense. I can see how Mom was a threat to him, since she could go public with her story at any point. But why try to kill me?

How villainous do you have to be to send assassins after your own child? Especially if she knows nothing about you?

Then, in a burst, it comes to me.

“I’m walking proof of his crime, aren’t I?” I say, staring at Nikolai. “A single DNA test, and he’s toast. Even if he tries to claim it was consensual, Mom was still underage at the time of my conception. Sixteen to his thirty-plus.”

Nikolai nods. “At the very least, he’s guilty of statutory rape. It’s the rare case where it’s not his word against hers. No matter how he tries to spin it, what he did is a criminal offense.”

“And he probably doesn’t know that Mom never told me about him. As far as he’s concerned, I can pop up at any moment, publicly claiming him as my father.”

“Afraid so, zaychik.” He tilts his head, studying me intently. “Are you okay?”

I start to nod on autopilot, then shake my head. “No. No, I’m not. I need a minute.” Or ten thousand minutes. Or the rest of my life.

My biological father is a rapist and a murderer who’s trying to kill me.

I don’t know how to even begin processing that.

Gaze filled with understanding, Nikolai squeezes my hand again, then curves his palm over my jaw and leans in, stroking my cheek with the edge of his thumb. “I’ll let you rest, zaychik,” he murmurs, his breath warm and subtly sweet against my lips. “We’ll talk more when you’re feeling better.”

Closing the small distance between us, he kisses me. His lips are gentle on mine, tender, yet I can sense the hungry possessiveness underneath the restraint. It terrifies me nearly as much as my body’s instinctive response.

I may evade Bransford with his help, but there will be no evading him.

There’s no escape from the devil.