Under her skirt: The last Kiss

My twin sister died in my arms with his name on her lips.

Five years later, I wear red lipstick and heels to seduce the man who murdered her.

I’m not here for justice.

I’m here to make him fall in love with me.

Then I’ll rip his heart out.

“Anastasia.”

The name,my real name,cut through my thoughts like a very sharp blade. I looked up from the mirror to see Madam Santos standing behind me, her presence as powerful as ever.

“Look at you,” she said softly, smiling. “So beautiful. Just like your mother.”

I gave a small smile in return but said nothing. Words felt unnecessary tonight.

My reflection coldly stared back at me, red hair like fire, one icy blue eye, the other a deep green that burned like a warning. A face that was actually both mine… and not mine. The girl who once cried in the snow was long gone. This woman? She was built for war.

“It’s time,” Madam Santos said, turning toward the hallway. “The others are waiting.”

I rose without a word and followed her out.

Tonight was branding night,the ritual that sealed our fate. The night we stopped being girls and officially became weapons. Family. Assassins.

We entered the training hall,cold concrete, high ceilings, blood-stained floors. I’d seen men beg for mercy here. Heard them scream. Watched their life fade from their eyes. This was where monsters died and where women like me were reborn.

“Hey, Skye,” one of the girls whispered.

Skye. That was the name they gave me when I arrived. A clean slate. A sharp blade.

There were ten of us, standing in a line. Ten broken girls with deadly stories. All taken in by Madam Santos. All shaped, scarred, and sharpened into something terrifying.

We wore nothing but long black robes. Beneath them,bare skin. Vulnerable. Ready.

“Ten years ago,” Madam Santos’s voice roughly echoed through the hall, “I created this place. A sanctuary for girls broken by the world. Hurt by men who believed power made them gods.”

Her eyes scanned us, pride and fire dancing in them.

“Now, ten years later, I stand before the strongest women I’ve ever known. Each of you has a story. Each of you has a mission. And each of you has earned the right to carry the mark of this family.”

My throat tightened.

“I’ve watched you kill. I’ve watched you bleed. I’ve seen your first victories, your first failures. And today, I give you what no one else could, purpose.”

She paused. Then came the command…

“Undress.”

I untied my robe slowly. Let it slip from my shoulders. Let it fall in silence to the cold floor.

Naked. Proud. Unafraid.

From the corner of my eye, I saw it,the branding iron. Glowing red. Ready.

Madam Santos picked it up.

“You will wear this brand as a symbol of who you are. My blood. My oath. My legacy.”

She stepped toward the first girl in line. Pressed the iron against her back. A scream tore throughout the hall. The scent of scorched flesh filled the crispy air.

The second girl barely flinched. She just clenched her jaw, tears in her eyes.

And now it was my turn.

I closed my eyes. And I remembered…

My sister.

Annabelle.

Her hand in mine as we ran barefoot through snow.

Her blood stained the road.

She sobs when she realizes she can't run anymore.

The sound of the gun.

His voice.

His face.

We begged him.

He didn’t care.

He pulled the trigger anyway.

And just like that,she was gone.

A tear slid down my cheek.

The iron pressed into my skin, leaving a mark that burned, deeply.

It was fire.

It was agony.

I’m coming for you, Nikolaus Volkov.

And I will be the death of you.

~

“I am starving,” Red said,the same girl who didn’t scream when the iron touched her flesh. She flashed a sheepish smile as she grabbed a massive portion of roasted meat from the table.

After the branding, there was always a feast. A reward for surviving hell.

“Greedy,” I muttered, stealing a piece from her plate.

She rolled her eyes. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“So… what’s next for you?” she asked after a moment.

“You mean what’s next for us?” I countered, smirking.

She laughed,a low, husky sound that always made the room feel warmer. Red had arrived three years before me. We shared more than just a sisterhood here,we had the same enemy. The Volkov family.

She rarely spoke of her past, but I knew her mother had once been the mistress of the former Volkov old master. Whatever happened after that had clearly scarred her. I’d seen it in the way her hands trembled at night when she thought no one was looking. In the way her smile could vanish in a blink.

“Of course,” she said, grinning like a devil. “God, I can’t wait to bring that family to their fucking knees.”

She scared me sometimes,with how much she enjoyed the thought of revenge. But she was the closest thing I had to a real family now.

When I first arrived, broken, angry, drowning in grief, Red was the only one who reached for me. She brought me food. Let me cry without asking questions. Even let me win sparring matches just to help me bleed out the rage.

“We will travel to Italy tomorrow,” she said between bites. “There’s a masked party going on. High society, old money, dangerous men in tailored suits. The perfect place to start identifying who’s who. Maybe even lure ourselves a Volkov.”

I chuckled. “What do you think he’s like?”

“Nikolaus?” I nodded.

She leaned in, grinning. “Scary. Handsome. The kind of man who could make you dripping wet just by looking at you.”

“Red!” I slapped her arm, and she burst into laughter.

Her smile faded quickly though, like a candle snuffed by wind.

“I want him dead,” she said quietly. “Not just him. His whole family. They took everything from me.”

Her voice turned cold. Too cold.

“We’ve worked too hard for this, Skye.” Her eyes locked on mine, unwavering. “I’ll be damned if we don’t get what we came for.”

I placed a hand over hers. “We will, sister. I promise you, we will. By the time we’re done, the Volkov empire will crumble at our feet.”

She smiled faintly.

“Girls,” Madam Santos’s voice cut through the room like a blade. She stood by the door, face unreadable,but her tone was off.

Serious. Sharp. The kind of tone that meant something was wrong.

“We need to talk.”