God of Vengeance

I felt my eyebrow twitch the second Maya crossed her arms over her chest, her chin tilted up in that infuriating way that meant she had already decided she wasn’t going to listen to a single word I said.

“I said I can’t.”

Her tone was clipped, her voice sharp enough to cut through the cool night air.

I swear to God, this woman was going to be the death of me — or at least the slow, painful failure of my mental health. Not that my head was particularly healthy to begin with, but she was definitely not helping.

We were standing at the edge of the forest, where the shadows grew long and the path back to the mansion stretched like some kind of mocking invitation. I had already cut my mission short — which I never do — just to drag this stubborn nightmare back before anyone noticed she’d slipped away. And yet here she was, planted like a tree, arms crossed, refusing to move.

I’d known she would be trouble from the very first day. There had been a glint in her eye — wild, reckless, almost feral — that warned me she’d interfere with my work sooner or later. But this? This was going way too far. She wasn’t just poking her nose into my business now; she was practically shoving her entire existence into it. If she kept this up, one of us wasn’t going to survive this arrangement.

“Either this,” I growled, my patience stretched thin, “or you can stay here. I’m done discussing this.”

She stomped her foot on the damp forest ground like a little child, sending a few stray droplets of mud spattering against my boots.

“I don’t have the proper clothes on for this!” she snapped, gesturing at her long sweater that was falling to the middle of her thighs as if I should have sympathy.

“You should’ve thought about that before deciding to stalk me through the forest in the middle of the goddamn night!”

Her mouth fell open in outrage. “This was not planned! You were supposed to stalk the British boredom!”

“Cecily,” I corrected her flatly.

I knew better than to miss an opportunity to annoy her, especially when I saw that flicker of fury flash through her eyes at the mention of the girl’s name. It was a dangerous kind of pleasure — poking at a hornet’s nest just to see if it would sting.

“Who the hell cares?” she hissed through clenched teeth, stepping closer, like she was ready to fight me right there under the trees.

I’d love to see it.

I put the helmet on my head and swung one leg over the bike, my movements deliberate, slow, to make sure she saw just how serious I was about leaving her there if she didn’t move.

“So, you’re not coming?” I asked, my voice calm in a way that wasn’t calm at all.

“What do you mean you’re not coming?” Her voice pitched higher, tinged with disbelief. “We are both staying here until YOU find a solution!”

I let out a short, humorless laugh that sounded closer to a growl.

“And why the hell would I do that?”

“Because you’re a bodyguard!” she shot back.

I tilted my head, giving her a sharp, cold look that shut people up nine times out of ten. Not her, of course. She was immune to reason and apparently to basic survival instincts.

“I am Jeremy’s bodyguard,” I said slowly, enunciating every word so there was no way she could twist them around later. “Not yours. You mean nothing to me.”

That one hit. I could see it in the way her lips pressed into a thin line, in the brief flicker of hurt that crossed her face before she smothered it under that stubborn mask she wore so well.

Then, to my utter disbelief, she stepped right in front of the bike, blocking my way. The forest seemed to hold its breath around us. The night sky, already heavy and dark, darkened even more as thick clouds swallowed the stars whole.

A single cold droplet hit the back of my neck, trailing down my spine. Rain. Of course.

She stood there defiantly, her silhouette sharp against the deepening night. “You’re not leaving me here,” she said quietly, but her voice trembled just enough that I noticed.

For a second, just a second, something twisted uncomfortably in my chest — anger, frustration, something else I refused to name.

The storm was coming, and I didn’t just mean the weather.

“Jeremy told you to take care of me!”

I looked down at her, visor lifted so she could see my eyes, my voice low and unnervingly calm behind the helmet.

“Correction.” I tilted my head, letting the word cut like a blade. “He told me to keep you away — so you wouldn’t bother anyone.”

Her lips parted, the slightest flicker of hurt flashing across her face before she caught it and masked it again.

“Maybe,” I added, letting the thought linger, “the best solution is to leave you here — so you’d finally stop bothering everyone else.”

For just a second, she flinched. It was tiny, but I caught it.

I knew it tore her apart that people didn’t bother to hide their dislike for her anymore. She’d been unraveling for weeks — I’d seen it in every brittle smile, every sharp comment that sounded more like a plea than an insult.

At the hospital, I’d stayed behind a corner just to listen to her and Annika.

I’d seen what happened after.

The way the mug slipped from her hands, shattering against the tiles. The way she stood there frozen, trembling fingers slowly rolled into a fist before she took a deep breath, composing herself.

That moment — that crack in her armor — had been the realest I’d ever seen her.

And I wanted to see more of it.

More of her raw, unguarded, bleeding humanity.

More of the broken girl she tried so hard to hide under all that venom.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she spat, narrowing her eyes. Her nose twitched when a raindrop fell against it, making her flinch.

She tipped her head back toward the sky, seeing the thick storm clouds rolling in above us.

I started the motor, letting the sound slice through the heavy night air.

“Sit down.”

“No.”

I let the engine roar, a scream against the silence, and dropped the visor over my face. Then I revved once more — hard enough to spray the gravel — before pulling away from her, driving straight into the night.

By the time I reached the street, the rain had turned into a full downpour. My jacket was soaked through in seconds.

I don’t even know what I expected when I checked the mirror.

Her silhouette chasing after me?

Her voice cutting through the storm?

Some sign that she still cared enough to follow — or hate me for leaving her there.

But there was nothing.

Thunder groaned across the sky, low and angry, and I stopped just a few meters from the mansion gates.

I waited.

A moment.

A minute.

I killed the engine, straining to hear something — a car, footsteps, her voice, even one of her sharp insults flying after me.

But there was nothing except the rain hammering against my helmet, the hiss of water hitting the ground, and the sky splitting open above me.

Lightning flashed, then again, closer this time. The thunder cracked louder, like the sky was tearing itself apart, and the storm swallowed the night whole.

I cursed under my breath, whipped the bike around, and sped back down the road.

The world around me became a blur of water and shadow, every shape smearing together. My headlights were useless — the storm devoured their light.

Then, just as I rounded the corner, lightning struck a tree at the roadside.

The world lit up white, blinding for half a second —

and my memories came for me like a pack of wild animals.

“Bratok?”

Her tiny voice floated through the hall, muffled by the sound of rain hammering against the roof.

I sighed softly, already having pulled the blankets back and drawn the curtains to hide the storm outside. The game night my friends had planned would have to wait — I’d canceled the moment I saw the weather forecast. There was no way I was leaving her alone tonight.

I knew our parents wouldn’t be much help. They never were.

It had always been me.

I was the one she relied on when the world felt too big, too loud, too frightening.

Another knock at the door, this one smaller, more urgent.

“Ilya?” she called again, her voice tilting into a little whine.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here, Pchelka. Come inside!”

She didn’t wait for me to finish speaking. The door creaked open, and there she was — tiny, barefoot, clutching her teddy bear so tightly I thought its seams might rip.

Without a word, she climbed into my bed as if she’d been running from a monster. She tucked her teddy under the blanket first — priorities — and then scrambled in after him, pulling the covers up to her chin with a dramatic sigh of relief.

I smiled despite myself, leaning against the headboard and watching her with quiet amusement. Her wide, storm-filled eyes stared up at me, helpless and expectant.

I reached out and stroked her hair, smoothing it down gently.

“I thought you were a big girl now,” I teased, my voice soft.

“I am!” she whined, hugging her teddy even tighter, as if she could squeeze the fear out of herself.

“But big girls can get scared too!”

I chuckled, shaking my head at her logic.

“Can I stay here?” she asked, almost in a whisper.

She always asked — even though she knew the answer.

That was just how she was.

Our parents had taught her — without words, just with glances and sighs — that she was a little too much. Too noisy. Too needy. She had learned to ask for permission for the smallest things: to sit at the table, to speak, to simply exist.

With me, she didn’t need to ask.

I’d told her that a thousand times.

And most of the time, she didn’t.

But when she was scared — like tonight — that little voice inside her still told her she might be a burden.

I raised an eyebrow, giving her my best unimpressed look. She immediately grinned, her gap-toothed smile lighting up the room like a little sunbeam.

She’d just turned six last week, and she’d lost that tooth biting into the frosting of her birthday cake. She had been so proud, holding it up to me like it was treasure.

The windows rattled as thunder rolled across the sky. Her smile vanished, and she ducked under the blanket like a frightened rabbit.

“Shh,” I murmured, gently tugging the covers down so I could see her face again.

“What did we say, Pchelka?” I asked softly.

She blinked hard, bravely fighting back the tears that welled in her eyes. Her little chin trembled, but she swallowed it all down before whispering:

“Nothing bad can happen to me.”

Her voice was so small, like she thought the storm might overhear and challenge her.

“And why’s that?” I asked, nudging her playfully and smoothing her hair back from her damp forehead.

“Because…” she took a deep breath, pressing closer to me, “because I got my big brother to protect me.”

My chest tightened at that. I nodded, pride swelling inside me despite the ache it left behind.

“Exactly.” I bent down and kissed her forehead, letting the moment linger.

She immediately wriggled closer, curling up against me like a cat. She placed her teddy bear carefully on my chest so it wouldn’t feel “left out,” as she always said, before sighing deeply — finally safe.

“Bratok?”

“Mhm?”

Her voice was small again, but not from fear this time.

“What will I do when you’re gone?”

The question cut deeper than the storm outside.

I swallowed, forcing a smile she couldn’t see in the dark. I kissed her hairline, my lips brushing against her parting.

“I’ll always be here for you, Pchelka,” I whispered fiercely, as if saying it could make it true.

“Always.”

She let out a little breath, satisfied with the answer, and slowly drifted off, her tiny fingers still curled into the fabric of my shirt as though holding me there by sheer will.

I stayed awake long after she fell asleep, listening to the storm rage outside, making silent promises to the dark.

A scream ripped me out of my thoughts just in time.

I yanked the handlebars, the bike skidding dangerously close to the guardrail before I managed to steady it. My heart slammed against my ribs as the memory dissolved like smoke, leaving me with nothing but the echo of that scream.

Had I imagined it?

I twisted in my seat, peering through the rain-smeared visor at the empty road behind me. Nothing. Not a single shadow moved.

“What the hell…” I muttered under my breath, pulse still thundering.

“Blyat.”

Without thinking, I throttled the gas. The engine roared, a feral sound in the storm, and I spun the bike back toward the forest.

The rain only worsened as I reached the place where I’d left her.

I tore the helmet off, letting the downpour soak my hair and plaster it against my forehead. Water streamed down my face, blinding me as I turned in every direction.

“Maya?”

My voice barely carried over the storm.

Nothing.

The rain drummed on the leaves around me, loud, merciless.

“MAYA!” I shouted again; my voice raw this time.

Lightning tore across the sky, bleaching the world white for a split second before thunder cracked so loud it felt like the sky was breaking in half.

And then I heard it.

Faint. Fragile.

A scream — or maybe a sob.

I froze, squinting through the darkness, straining to catch it again. Then it came — a tiny, choked cry. The helmet in my hand fell to the ground.

I ran.

Branches whipped against my jacket as I plunged into the trees, mud slipping under my boots.

“MAYA!” I yelled again, louder this time.

A whimper answered me, so faint it could have been the wind, but I followed it, weaving between the trees until I found her.

She was curled up beneath a fallen trunk, rain streaming down her face and hair until it was impossible to tell where the storm ended and she began.

Shivering.

Soaked to the bone.

So…so small.

I knelt in front of her and placed a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t even flinch.

“Maya,” I said, softer now.

Nothing.

“Maya!”

A tremor ran through her body, but still no answer.

I leaned closer, my voice dropping into something I didn’t even recognize.

“Printsessa. Look at me.”

Her breath hitched — sharp, as though she’d been holding it under water and just broken the surface. Slowly, her red, swollen eyes lifted to mine.

“I… Ilya?” she whispered, voice trembling.

Thump.

She blinked at me, like I was her savior.

Thump. Thump.

I almost didn’t recognize the sound — my own heart, dropping like a stone in my chest.

Before I could process it, lightning split the sky again, this time striking so close the world turned blinding white.

She screamed.

Instinct took over.

I lunged forward, gathering her against me so fast we both nearly toppled over. She clung to me instantly, fists twisting into my jacket like I was the only solid thing left in the storm.

Her whole body shook against me, every muscle strung tight.

“Go away, go away…” she kept whispering, over and over, her voice breaking on the words.

She wasn’t talking to me.

She was talking to the storm.

I stroked her rain-soaked hair, my voice steady though I felt anything but.

“Shh,” I murmured, forcing calm into every syllable. “Nothing bad can happen to you. I’ll protect you.”

The words left my mouth before I could stop them, tasting like déjà vu — like a promise I had made a long time ago on a night just like this one.

For a moment, I froze, the past and present blurring together.

But she whimpered again, and I pushed the thought away, tightening my grip on her.

I scooped her up, lifting her easily into my arms, and turned back toward the road.

By the time we reached the bike, my clothes were soaked through, boots caked with mud.

“I can’t…” she whispered, her voice so fragile I almost missed it.

She clung harder when I tried to set her down so I could mount the bike.

“I can’t,” she repeated, desperate this time, burying her face in my neck as if the very thought of me letting go terrified her.

“I know, printsessa. We’re leaving.”

“Ilya, I’m—”

Her words broke off. She shivered violently against me, burying her face deeper in my neck as though the storm might drag her away if she let go.

I glanced at the bike, then back at her — and before my brain could catch up to my body, I was already moving.

I swung one leg over the seat and sat down, keeping her in my arms. With a firm tug, I shifted her until she straddled me, her soaked thighs pressing against my hips.

Her sweater clung to her skin, heavy with rain, and as I adjusted my grip, my hands landed on her bare thighs — cold, trembling, and far too exposed. My fingers brushed against damp fabric that barely qualified as shorts.

Or underwear.

“Who the hell,” I muttered under my breath, my voice sharp, tight, “goes out into a storm with nothing under a damn sweater?”

“S-shut up,” she shot back weakly, her voice muffled against my chest.

Despite everything — despite the storm, despite her shaking — my mouth twitched. Even like this, soaked to the bone and terrified, she couldn’t stop being a brat.

I shook my head, more at myself than at her, and reached for my helmet.

I slid it on and made sure her arms were locked tightly around me. Another thunderclap exploded overhead, and she nearly jumped out of her skin, clutching me so hard her nails bit through the leather of my jacket.

Good. At least she was holding on.

I leaned forward, feeling her gasp against my throat, but she didn’t look up — and I was almost glad. I didn’t know what she would see in my eyes right now.

I revved the engine. She shrieked against my neck, clawing for more grip, and I accelerated, the bike screaming down the road.

By the time we reached the mansion, my chest ached with the weight of her clinging to me.

—

She wouldn’t look at me.

Not when I carried her off the bike.

Not when I carried her up the stairs.

Not when I set her down in the bathroom, rainwater pooling around us both.

She stood there like a ghost while I tugged the tie out of her hair, letting it fall loose.

And she didn’t stop me when I peeled her soaked sweater away from her shoulders, or when I pushed the clinging fabric down her arms.

I tried — God, I tried — to keep my eyes on the top of her head, anywhere but her body. But when I nudged her under the golden showerhead and turned on the water, steam quickly filled the room, and I couldn’t stop my gaze from dropping.

White lace.

Barely there.

Matching bra and panties that clung to every curve, see-through under the spray.

I cleared my throat roughly and turned away before I could lose my grip on myself completely.

Her sharp little gasp echoed as the hot water hit her skin.

Then a soft sound — almost a moan.

Every nerve in my body went rigid.

I needed to get out.

I threw her soaked sweater — the one I’d been unconsciously clutching this entire time — onto the sink and left without a word, slamming the door behind me like it might keep my thoughts locked inside. And my nasty desires.

By the time I reached my room, I was shaking for an entirely different reason.

I tore off my wet clothes almost violently, as if they were choking me, and stumbled into the shower.

Only when the hot water scalded my frozen skin did I realize how cold I had been, how tight every muscle was.

But it wasn’t just the storm I was thawing from.

Her body wouldn’t leave my head.

The lace. The way the wet fabric had clung to her skin. The way she had gasped, the way her small frame had pressed into me like I was the only safe thing she had left in the world.

I bit down on my bottom lip, hard enough to taste blood, but the images only sharpened.

“Fucking… bitch,” I growled, one hand braced against the cold tile as I reached down with the other.

I felt the veins on my dick when I roughly jerked up and down, lost between anger and madness, stuck in the middle of insanity.

I pumped my fist around my erection with rough, punishing strokes, chasing away the storm in my chest as much as the one outside.

Anger. Need. Frustration.

Her face swam before my eyes.

Her lips — too pink. Too soft. Too close.

I imagined her kneeling in front of me, those lips wrapping around me, taking me in.

And that was it.

It was all it took for me to explode against the shower wall in little than under a minute like a prepubescent little boy.

I came hard, groaning against the tile, my forehead pressed to the wall as hot water cascaded down my back.

My breath came in ragged gasps.

This was bad.

This was so fucking bad.

I slammed my fist against the tile once before shutting the water off, trying to drown the images in the dark.

I needed to stay away from her.

Because if I didn’t…

I didn’t know what I might do.

-

“I won’t ask you where you were, Ilya.”

The moment I stepped into the office, Jeremy’s voice cut through the heavy air like a blade. He stood by the tall window, his silhouette framed by the faint morning light. The storm had passed, but its echo still seemed to linger in the room, the sky outside bruised and gray.

I froze in the doorway, my spine instinctively straightening, the weight of his words rooting me in place. My clothes felt heavier than they should have, clinging to me as if they, too, carried the shame I hadn’t yet managed to shake.

“It wasn’t an easy night,” I admitted, though the words were more to myself than to him. My voice sounded rough, sleep-deprived, like gravel. After my humiliating shower, I hadn’t closed my eyes for more than a handful of minutes. I’d tossed from side to side, the storm hammering against my windows as if the night itself wanted to keep me awake. My body still ached from the cold rain. My mind wouldn’t stop replaying her face, her voice, her trembling.

I tried to suppress the cough building in my chest, the sharp pain of it making my ribs flare.

Jeremy didn’t turn immediately. His tone was calm, even measured, but I knew better than to mistake that for lenience.

“But I do want to know,” he said, finally glancing over his shoulder, “why you were with Maya.”

His eyes locked on mine, steady and sharp, holding me in place as if he’d pinned me to the floor. He wasn’t angry. Jeremy rarely showed anger in a way most people did — that was what made him dangerous. He was the kind of man whose disappointment weighed more than most men’s rage.

Jeremy Volkov wasn’t stupid, and we both knew it.

Contrary to what Maya believed — her little accusations, her endless suspicion — I wasn’t doing anything behind his back. Everything I did, every calculated move, every step I took closer to the line was in service of the loyalty I’d already pledged to him.

Jeremy knew who I was before I stepped into this mansion. He knew why I wanted to be here, why I’d clawed my way into the mafia’s underbelly just to sit at this table. He knew about my past, about the blood that bound me to this life, about the ghosts I carried like weights around my neck.

That was what kept me loyal to him — not fear, not ambition, but the fact that he understood.

Jeremy Volkov understood family.

Some might say his world was black and white. That he measured everything in terms of what was useful to him, what was justifiable under his code. And maybe they were right. But for me, that was exactly what I needed — someone who wasn’t fickle, who wasn’t swayed by passing moods. Someone who could draw the line and keep it there.

He was calculating, yes. The smartest of the Heathens, level-headed when it mattered most. And he still left space for understanding — if it fit within his morals.

Family did.

Vengeance did.

And this was not about Maya threatening to tell him anything or questioning my loyalty.

This was about her brother.

Nikolai.

He was Jeremy’s opposite in every way — hot-blooded where Jeremy was cold, reckless where Jeremy was deliberate. Nikolai was the kind of man who didn’t just hold grudges; he buried them with bodies. A “kill first, ask questions never” kind of man.

And right now, he didn’t trust me.

I could see it in his eyes every time I entered a room, the suspicion simmering just beneath the surface. He wasn’t completely stupid. He knew I was hiding something — he just didn’t know that Jeremy already knew that the man he trusted knew the whole story and let me live anyway.

And that was the thing about Jeremy: he didn’t spill anyone’s secrets. Not even to his own people. That was why I respected him — because he carried what I never had to give him in silence, the same way I carried his orders.

“Skazat’!”

Say it! The sharp word cut through my drifting thoughts. I blinked, realizing I’d been standing there too long, lost in my own head.

I cleared my throat, swallowing down the itching burn in the back of it. “I wasn’t anywhere with her.”

My voice was calm, steady, but the weight of the statement was deliberate. I looked him dead in the eye, knowing he’d understand what I meant: whatever happened, it wasn’t what it looked like.

Jeremy sighed, slow and controlled, then gave the faintest of nods.

“You’re lucky Nikolai wasn’t in the mansion,” he said, finally turning fully toward me.

“I was careful,” I muttered, jaw tight.

“Not careful enough.”

The words hit like a slap, even though his tone never changed.

I gritted my teeth and nodded once, sharp. “I’ll be from now on.”

“No.”

The single word landed heavier than everything that came before it.

He walked around the desk with that quiet, deliberate precision that always made me feel a little more tensed, and sank into his black leather chair with a soft, controlled sigh.

“You won’t get involved with her again.”

His voice was calm, but every syllable carried the weight of unspoken consequences.

“Boss—” I started, but the interruption never came.

“If something like that happens again,” he continued, cutting me off without raising his voice, “you call me. I’ll handle it.”

He leaned back slightly, the dim light catching the sharp planes of his face. His eyes, thoughtful and calculating, locked onto mine.

“Nikolai is no one you should get involved with,” he said, slow and deliberate. “He is my best friend. And I know what he is capable of.”

I swallowed hard. A shiver ran down my spine — the kind that wasn’t from cold or fear, but from the weight of truth pressing down. He was right. Nikolai wasn’t just dangerous; he was lethal. And for all my arrogance, I had no illusions about what could happen if I stepped out of line.

I drew in a deep breath, chest tight, and tried to ignore the tickling, restless tension in my body — the remnants of last night, of everything I shouldn’t have felt.

He was doing me a favor. Protecting me from myself. And for once, I told myself I had to appreciate it.

“Won’t happen again, Boss,” I said, voice steady, chin high.

“I know it won’t,” he replied, a hint of finality in the quiet corner of his mouth.

After that, he updated me on the King’s and the current status of things in the organization. Every word he spoke drew a sharp line in my mind, helping me shake off the lingering shadows of yesterday. It was a clean cut. Yesterday hadn’t happened. Maya wasn’t my problem, and she never would be again.

By the time the briefing ended, I left the office and started toward my next class, shaking off the tension like water running off a coat.

It was almost absurd how normal my life seemed now — juggling university schedules and lectures while living under the constant shadow of one of the most dangerous families in the mafia.

Since I’d left the Serpents, Jeremy had reorganized everything for me. My schedule, my classes, my routes — all meticulously adjusted to give me maximum protection, ensure backup was available if things got messy. Not that anyone in our “student” life would ever touch our mafia world, but Jeremy’s motto had always been - better safe than never fucking sorry.

I turned the corner into the left wing of the building, the familiar echo of heels on linoleum greeting me, when a sudden collision nearly sent me stumbling.

I looked down, brushing off the shock, and froze.

Bright, clear blue eyes were staring up at me, sharp and unyielding.

For a heartbeat, the world slowed. The color, the clarity — it was impossible to ignore.

And then the recognition hit her.

The shine in those eyes dulled instantly, a wall rising where openness had been.

The shift was subtle, but unmistakable. The person I’d collided with now regarded me like a stranger, carefully masking whatever thoughts had just crossed their mind.

I straightened instinctively, adjusting myself, and tried to read her expression, but the carefully constructed barrier was already in place.

And for the first time, I realized just how many walls people built around themselves — and how easy it was to see them crack when they weren’t expecting it.

“Watch where you’re going, dog!”

I caught myself before irritation could flare. No. This was perfect. This was far better than anything I could have hoped for.

Because there she was — her.

And suddenly, everything became easier. Easier than dealing with anyone else, easier than navigating crowds or tense hallways.

She had returned to being exactly what she always was: the insufferable, infuriating, stubborn little bitch I loathed.

And I could deal with her.

I could handle people I hated. That was simple. You ignored them, outmaneuvered them, let them exhaust themselves while you preserved your own peace.

“No, Sokolov. You better watch where you’re going,” I shot back, my voice sharp and clipped. My face stoic.

I didn’t even glance at her. I moved past, brushing her aside effortlessly, letting my shoulder press against hers just enough to assert presence without true violence.

I loved it.

In the corner of my eyes I could see her eyes widened for a fraction of a second, that flash of shock and hesitation, the tiniest crack in her armor — and I loved it even more that she didn’t respond further. She understood perfectly what I meant.

She didn’t want anyone watching her. And I didn’t want anyone seeing me.

For different reasons, of course. But it was the only piece of common ground we shared.

Everything else? That belonged to me.

And I had learned long ago not to trespass where she drew her lines — nor to let anyone else cross mine.

Because the common ground of mutual hate was the only ground we wouldn’t be in danger.

Anything out of that zoned was simply suicide.

A zone filled with mines, ready to explode.