“Michael, listen to me.” I fall into step beside him. “Just because I don’t want to leave doesn’t mean I’m not working to make it happen for you. Please believe me. I’m doing everything I can to get you home.”
“I know.” He glances at me, his brow furrowed with a frown. “I just wish you’d come with me when I leave. A lot of people here hate you, you know.”
“I know.” I smile to chase away the stressed look on his face. “But don’t worry about me. I’m going to be fine.”
“Because you have him.”
“Lucas? Yes.” I’ve noticed that my brother doesn’t like to refer to Lucas by his name, preferring to just say “he.” “He’ll keep me safe.”
Misha is still frowning, so on impulse, I reach over and ruffle his hair playfully. “You know, this mop on your head is getting long. Want me to give you a haircut, or are you trying to grow a ponytail?”
“Eeww, no.” Misha grimaces and reaches up with his hand. His fingers disappear in the thick blond strands. “Yeah, I guess I do need to cut it,” he says grudgingly. “Are you good at giving haircuts?”
“I’m sure I’ll manage.” I grin at his dubious expression. “If I screw it up, we’ll just ask Lucas to fix it—he gives himself a buzz cut every other week.”
At the mention of Lucas, Misha tenses again, and his gaze slides away. “That’s okay,” he mutters, suddenly fascinated by an ant hill to our left. “I’m sure whatever you do will be fine.”
I sigh but let it go. I can’t force my brother to like Lucas. The brutal attack on the black site and Obenko’s death left an indelible impression on his young psyche. Misha regards Lucas as the enemy, and rightly so.
If Lucas hadn’t realized who Misha was, my brother would’ve been one of the casualties of that attack.
We walk without talking for a few minutes, but as we approach the edge of the forest, I touch Misha’s arm, bringing him to a halt. “I’m sorry about what happened that day,” I say when he turns to face me. “Truly, I am. If I could go back and change things, I would. The last thing I wanted was to endanger you or the others, believe me.”
Misha stares at me, then says slowly, “It wasn’t your fault… not really. I’m sorry I said that before. Besides, if they hadn’t come—” He stops, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“What?”
“You probably would’ve been killed.” His words are barely audible. Turning away, he continues walking, and I hurry after him, my stomach knotted tight.
“Who told you that, Michael?” Catching up with him, I grab his arm, bringing him to a stop again. “Why did you say that?”
“Because it’s true.” Misha’s face is shadowed, his forearm tense in my grip. “I overheard Uncle Vasya talking about it with Kirill Ivanovich. I didn’t want to believe it at first—I thought maybe I misunderstood, or took their words out of context—but the more I thought about it, the clearer it became. They were going to kill you and tell me you ran off with your lover.” He draws in an unsteady breath. “They were going to lie, like they’ve lied about you all along.”
“Oh, Michael…” I release his arm, my heart clenching at the pain in his eyes. I can’t even fathom how agonizing this betrayal must be for him. Obenko had been my boss and mentor, but for my brother, he had been so much more. Misha must’ve fought so hard against this knowledge, seeking to deny the truth for as long as he could. “Maybe you did misunderstand,” I say, unable to bear his distress. “Maybe it was—”
“No, don’t. You’ve been saying this all along, and I was too stupid to believe you. And then when you showed me those pictures last week…” Shaking his head, Misha takes a step back. “I should’ve listened to you from the start. I just didn’t want to believe what you were saying, you know?” His face contorts. “He was dead and—”
“And he was your uncle, a man you looked up to, and I was the sister who left you when you were three.” I keep my voice soft and even. “You had no reason to believe me over him. I understand… and I understood then too.” I inhale to ease the constriction in my throat. “And I’m sorry, Michael. I’m really, truly sorry that things worked out this way.”
Misha’s expression doesn’t change. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he says, his voice strained. “Uncle Vasya—Obenko—is a liar, and I’m an idiot for believing him. Kent said—” He stops again, his face reddening for some reason.
“Lucas?” I stare at Misha blankly. “You talked to him?”
“Yesterday,” Misha mumbles, and begins walking again. “When he took me back to the barracks after dinner.”
“What did he say?” I ask, falling into step beside him. Misha doesn’t respond, so I say more firmly, “What did he say, Michael?”
“He said Kirill Ivanovich hurt you when you were my age,” he says reluctantly. “And that Obenko told you they took care of him and they didn’t.” He glances at me, his face now pale. “Is it true? Did he”—he stops, blocking my way—“do something to you?”
Oh God. The rush of blood to my brain almost makes me dizzy. My cheeks turn hot, then cold as rage fills my stomach. How dare Lucas tell this to a fourteen-year-old? I never wanted Misha to know about Kirill. From what I’ve been able to pry out of him, it seems my brother has suppressed most of what happened to him at the orphanage. He remembers that it was bad, but he doesn’t know the extent of it. Something like this could bring back those horrible memories, and even if it doesn’t, I don’t want him exposed to that kind of ugliness. It’s bad enough that Misha’s uncle deceived him; now my brother is going to think the whole world is made up of awful people.
For a moment, I’m tempted to deny everything, but that would make me just one more person who’s lied to Misha. “Yes,” I say, my voice strained. “It’s true. But I was a little older than you—fifteen—and they did keep him away from me after they learned what happened.”
Misha’s hands curl as I speak. “Are you making excuses for them?” His voice rises incredulously. “For these… these monsters? After everything they’ve done to you? I thought Kent was making it up so I’d hate him less, but he wasn’t, was he? That’s what the two of you were talking about back at the black site. I heard you, but there was so much going on I didn’t really register it. Kirill hurt you, and I…” His face twists painfully. “Oh, fuck, I trained with the guy. I liked him.”
“Mishen’ka…” Pushing my anger at Lucas aside, I reach out to touch Misha’s shoulder, but he steps away, shaking his head.
“I’m such an idiot.” Stumbling over a root, he catches himself on a tree and continues to back away, muttering bitterly, “I’m such a fucking idiot…”
“Michael.” Pushing my concerns about his suppressed memories aside, I make my voice stern. “I don’t want you to use that kind of language. Do you understand? You’re not an idiot, and you’re certainly not a fucking anything. There was no way you could’ve known this, just like you couldn’t have known that Obenko was lying. Nothing about this situation is your fault.”
Misha blinks. “But—”
“No buts.” Wiping all emotion from my face, I come closer and stop in front of him. “I don’t want to hear any more whining. What’s done is done. It’s in the past. This, here and now, is the present. We’re here, and we’re not going to look back. Yes, we’ve been through some bad things, and we’ve known some bad people, but we survived and we’re stronger now.” Softening my voice a little, I reach out and squeeze his hand. “Aren’t we?”
“Yes,” Misha whispers, his fingers tightening around mine. “We are.”
“Good.” I release his hand and step back. “Now let’s go. Diego told me he might take you to shooting practice this afternoon, since you’ve been good and all. You don’t want to be late for that.”
I turn and begin walking, and Misha trails next to me, the bitterness on his face replaced by a look of bewilderment. I’ve never spoken to him like that before, and he doesn’t know what to make of it.
Despite my simmering fury at Lucas, I smile as we approach his house.
I’m Misha’s big sister, and it feels good to act like one.
42
Lucas
“How could you do this?”
The minute I walk through the front door, Yulia stalks toward me, all long legs and flowing blond hair. Her blue eyes are narrowed into slits, her nostrils all but breathing fire.
“Do what?” I ask, confused. I did receive a rather gruesome update from Ukraine this morning, but I don’t see how Yulia could’ve found out about that. “What are you talking about?”
“Misha,” she hisses, stopping in front of me. Her hands are clenched at her sides. “You told him about Kirill.”