Page 80 of Manic

I took it as acceptance and focused on getting comfortable. His heady cologne seared my nose, carrying an undercurrent of smoke and spice and aged whiskey. It was intoxicating.

Despite all of that and the fact that he was laying beneath me, I couldn’t help but land on the dynamic of his family. The Riot brushed my mind—what I’d said to him before—and my guilt resurfaced.

“Manic,” I said softly, and he answered with a low, rumbling hum against my ear. “I’m sorry for what I said to you about your mother.”

I was actually sorry.

As much as I hated goodbyes, over the last two weeks, I’d wondered if he’d been able to say it to her. Likely not, considering she’d taken her own life, and it had eaten at me ever since Naomi had mentioned the anniversary of their deaths.

Had he been able to say goodbye to Raven?

Manic lay frozen beneath me. He said nothing, not even an acknowledgement that he’d heard me, so I continued my nonsensical ramble and offered him a truth.

“Did you know that I hate goodbyes?” I asked. “I think they’re useless. A goodbye feels like forever, so I refuse to say them.”

His breathing evened out, a slow rise and fall of his chest against my cheek as I stared at the dark edges of my room. It had slowly become mine over the last few weeks. My clothes were strewn across the floor and draped over the chairs. My arm went around his waist, my bare knee brushing his hip as my cotton night-slip shifted higher up my thigh.

“I don’t like promises,” he said. “So I don’t make them.”

A truth for a truth. It was a small one, but I felt like my heart had cracked open, stuttering in my chest. All it did was make me curious.

“Were you able to say goodbye to them?” I asked, holding my breath and wondering if he’d snap.

“No.”

My heart sank. “What happened to them?”

Minutes eased by as the quiet stretched between us.

I would’ve thought Manic had fallen asleep if his hand didn’t slowly drift across my back and into my hair. It was soft—soothing, almost—and reminded me of the time he’d held my hand in his car. That definitely hadn’t been a dream.

I rested my chin against him and glanced at his face. He was fully awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“In the mafia,” he started, his voice a soft murmur, “the families like to send their offspring off to a Russian camp for a series of tests as soon as they turn seven.”

I stayed quiet and still, eager to hear more, even as shock overtook my bloodstream. Truthfully, I was too afraid to move.

“I was ten, and Grave had just turned seven when we were shipped off with him,” he said. “It was my second time in Russia, third for Raven. He was twelve.”

“What are the tests?”

“Survival mainly,” he answered. “No one is allowed to intervene unless someone dies. We were all separated into groups—only allowed to speak Russian. Grave didn’t know much at the time, and my use of it hadn’t been fluent so it was difficult for us to understand the rules. We ran into another group. It had been snowing when they stole our things. Raven was injured and stayed behind with Grave while I left to find shelter.”

He took a deep breath, though I felt the slight trembling of his hand on the back of my head. I knew he was reliving it all, and a part of me wanted to spare him from it.

“He lied about how injured he was,” he said quietly, “and he bled out by the time I came back. So no, I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

Tears collected in my eyes at the confession, but I blinked them away. Emotion, raw and painful, clogged my throat. For the first time since arriving in this stupid penthouse, I was angry for Manic, not at him. He’d been forced into this life—forced to endure something so traumatic—it was no wonder he behaved the way he did. No wonder he wanted to leave. He was wracked with guilt.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I said, but he only huffed.

“Tell that to my mother.”

I had no words for what he’d said so casually. Did she take her own life because of Raven’s death? Had she blamed Manic for what happened? A shocking amount of questions circled my thoughts, but Manic spoke before I could ask any of them.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone you had a stalker?”

I exhaled through my nose, my face flaming from the subject change. He glanced down, the corner of his mouth turning up. “I answered your questions, now answer mine.”