He smiled. “If anything, I should have been there for you more. I was the older brother. I shouldn’t have left the second I was released— especially knowing now how fucked-up you are.” “This is truly therapeutic.” “Good. Now, you can stop hitting people and start rehearsing how you’re going to tell Mila you love her.” I chuckled. “Unfortunately, there’s no mirror in here, and I need to see myself during rehearsals.” “By the way, welcome to the club,” he said with relish. “I’ve been waiting for the day I could call you whipped.” Fuck. Pd always avoided the word “love” like it was a disease, but now he’d put the idea in my head, it festered. All that random stuff that came out of my mouth when I thought she could die was true. I’d fought death more times than I could count, but I knew I’d welcome it if it ever came down between me or her. I’d warned her about being selfless, and now it seemed I was practically sacrificial in regard to her. The sickly-sweet girl with a soft heart and love of yellow had somehow filled a blank space inside me. And I couldn’t handle the thought of her anywhere else but with me. Pros: My crystal glasses were safe. Cons: It might really be unrequited. I didn’t get time to muse on it further. The door flew open. My brother and I silently watched Kostya drag in a severed head and throw it to the floor. It rolled like a lopsided bowling bowl before losing momentum and stilling in the center of the room. “What the fuck is that?” I asked, exasperated. My office was already a fucking mess. Kostya was breathing heavily, covered from head to toe in blood. It dripped from the knife in his hand to the floor. Agitation worked through me. I was going to need brand new carpet at this point. “Dimitri Mikhailov.” I stared at him blankly, though internally, I was a second away from killing him with that knife in his hand. “Are you hearing impaired?” I growled. “Or just fucking stupid?”