“I mean she’s dead, Rae.” He turns to look at me. His gray eyes are so much like his father’s. But where Lukas’s are cold, Kir’s are just empty. “Eighteen years in the ground. And my father’s the one who put her there.”
I shrink away from him. The deadness in his face makes me feel colder than the air ever could. It’s an all-consuming gray haze, reaching out with frigid fingers to drag me down into it.
Every rational cell in my body is screaming at me to get up, get out, get as far away from the Lazarev family as humanly possible. Buy a bus ticket to somewhere warm. Change my name. Cut my hair. Start over.
“Kir…” I whisper. “Are you sure?”
He finishes the bottle, then throws it carelessly over his shoulder. It bursts into a million shards on the rooftop behind us. He doesn’t even bothe
