Page 110 of Maksim

Neither.

Neither.

I can’t say. I won’t say.

Weapon?

Solution?

Help?

Panic morphs into fear which morphs into sorrow as I lock eyes with Anya. The fear I feel is magnified on her face.

My little sister.

The girl who hid behind my legs when strangers approached. Who fell asleep on my chest while watching cartoons. Who sought safety in my arms for months after her parents died, plagued by nightmares.

I am this girl's protector.

And Elira.

When I look at her, it’s a new kind of heartbreak. She doesn’t look at me with fear, but with a stern, brave expression that is a kick to the gut.

When I look at her, I see things I didn’t know I should be looking for. I see a life together. A home to share, secrets I no longer have to keep. I see love. I see her. I see something remarkably irreplaceable and a mark on my heart that could never be erased.

“I love you,” I tell her, a tear slipping from my eye for the first time since my mother told me the words scrolled across my chest.

She closes her eyes as her own tears fall. “I know. It’s okay. Just do it.”

“Now,” the woman behind me growls.

I wait. I keep waiting. It isn’t until the gun points at Anya again that my answer, the one I will hate myself forever for, is ripped from my throat.

“Elira.”

No one is surprised. The two women are pleased. Even so, it feels like a silence takes over the room for a moment. Things feel sluggish.

I watch the knife in shame, waiting for Henrietta to move, not allowing myself the mercy of looking away.

She doesn’t slice Elira’s carotid. Her lips spread in a pleased smile as she moves the knife to Elira’s collarbone and slices.

I narrow my eyes, but it takes me only a moment to react.

She must not realize it. She must believe she’s already won, must’ve gotten too cocky.

Because with the knife no longer at Elira’s throat and the gun on me, they just lost their leverage.

I jerk my head to the side while snatching the gun at the same time and twisting it in the woman’s hand. It fires over Elira’s cry just to the right of my head, but once it’s in my control, I don’t even take the time to scan for injuries. I point at Henrietta and fire.

She ducks behind Elira’s chair, using her as a shield, but by the scream she lets out, I can tell I hit her.

The other woman growls and jumps at me, but all it takes is an elbow to her jaw to send her flying to the floor. I glance to see her out cold before I walk to Henrietta.

She whimpers and scoots away from Elira’s chair, knife shaking in her grasp as she weakly points it at me while using her other hand to cover the bullet wound in her stomach.

I want to take my time with her. Wrap my hands around her neck. Use her own knife on her. I want to be as sick as she is, make her feel the pain she’s made Elira feel.

But Anya and Elira need me. And sometimes you just have to finish the job.