These Violent Delights

“It would hurt you more than death, but at least you would be alive.”

“How are you this bad?” Juliette asked in disbelief. “I thought you were Russian.”

“I am Russian, not an alcoholic,” Roma muttered.

“Too many kind hearts turn cold every day.”

“Shut up!” Juliette screamed. “Shut up, shut up, all of you!”

Save for her parents, they all froze with their eyes wide, startled like raccoon dogs caught in the light. Juliette was heaving for breath, her face still marred with Mr. Li’s blood. She looked a living nightmare.

Good, she thought. Let them consider me callous. It is better than marking me weak.

Perhaps some traitorous part of her had wanted Roma to
show just so she could see him. That part of her—the one that had dreamed of a better world, that had loved without caution—was supposed to be dead.

Once, a long time ago, at the back of a library while a storm raged on outside, Juliette had asked Roma, “Do you ever imagine what life would be like if you had a different last name?”

“All the time. Don’t you?”

Juliette had thought about it. “Only sometimes. Then I consider all that I would miss out on without it. What would I be if I weren’t a Cai?”

Roma had lifted onto his elbow. “You could be a Montagov.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Very well.” Roma had leaned in, close enough that she could see the twinkle in his dark eyes, close enough to see her own blushing face in the reflection of his gaze. “Or we could erase both names and leave this entire Cai–Montagov nonsense behind.”

Memories were beastly little creatures, after all—they rose with the faintest whiff of nourishment.

If her body refused to forget who Roma once was to her, how was she to make those same limbs rebel from their nature, make them destroy him?

But Juliette still needed to keep herself in line, force herself to follow them if people were to look up to her. Without her looks, this city would turn on her. It would claim that she didn’t deserve to be as competent as she was. The men, meanwhile, could be as tan, as fat, and as old as they wished. It would have no bearing on what people thought of them.

“These days, Juliette,” he said, low and warily, “the most dangerous people are the powerful white men who feel as if they have been slighted.”