Part 2: Chapter 19

Arya

It’s been almost a week to the day that I killed my father and Dante, nearly a week since I took a life without a wavering heart.

And almost a week since the blood won’t wash from my hands. I see it as clear as day, but nobody else does. It stains my hands, even as I eat, even as I touch Dimitri and stroke his face. I don’t know how to get rid of it; no matter how much I scrub my hands raw, the stains remain as if it has soaked deep into my skin; my tattooed shame.

Dimitri said that it still has to hit me, that the repercussions for taking a life is each death chipping at more of your soul. He’s done it for years, and it’s still not an easy thing to do, whether the person deserved it or not.

Did that advice help? Hell no, it didn’t, but I needed to hear it. If taking a life is still a difficult feat for an Enforcer, then perhaps my guilt is normal.

“Mistress, Mr Volkov is here,” one of my men tells me, and I permit him to allow entry. As much as I wanted this to be Dimitri,