Cruel Compassion: A dystopian thriller with a hint of romance (Insurrection Series Book 1)

by A. E. King

  He stands and clears his throat. “Don’t worry about your makeup. You’ve never looked more beautiful,” he says before leaving me alone with his ring on my finger and the feel of his lips still fading from mine.

  He has told me that his hands are dirty. I’ve seen enough to know it’s true. Unfortunately, They’re also tender.

  He has told me his soul is black. But I have a growing suspicion that it’s grey. This would all be so much simpler if he were one-dimensional—all black. Then I could secretly cherish the memories of his pure, untarnished soul and keep my distance.

  Instead, the parts I loathe dance with the parts I love, and there’s a new fear taking root in my chest. I’m terrified that I’m weak enough to want him anyway. If I let myself accept what he offers, and our souls mix together, will mine darken? Just like his?

  Chapter 8

  Dimitri and I are seated at the head of the throne room next to my father and other senior members of the Council. I loved this room when Mama was alive. It felt animated and vibrant. But now the mint-colored trim and the white walls feel too bright for this solemn crowd. The red drapes have turned incriminating, like a testament to the blood we all have on our hands.

  It’s strange to be around people dressed in so many colors. They look like feathers on a majestic bird. Foreign dignitaries don’t adhere to our dress code. And my father doesn’t want us to appear backward to them. So tonight we sparkle and shimmer. Tomorrow we’ll be back to our cold, harsh, black-and-white world.

  Forks clink against china plates, and the occasional hushed conversation breaks out then echoes through the room before it dies down again. The throne room is elegant, and the table settings are perfect. Our palace chefs have outdone themselves tonight, pairing traditional Russian foods with dishes from each of our guest’s home countries.

  Yet most of the foreign guests sit in awkward silence.

  My father is stewing next to me. I can feel his frustration radiating off him. Have we fallen so far in international opinion that our guests cannot feel comfortable sharing a meal with us? There’s a caution, a politeness, a formality that I can’t break through with nods and smiles.

  It’s not just the conversation they seem to find lacking. They nibble on pelmeni, avoid the holodetz, and try to move things around on their plates to disguise their dislike.

  To me, these are simple foods that bring memories of my mother and Zhenya, instructing me in the kitchen.

  Instinct instructs me to sit quietly and wait for someone else to take the lead. But hundreds of endangered children compel me to speak.

  My father tried to impress these guests with finery. My mother would have made them feel welcome. We need something relatable, something that transcends cultural barriers. I look at Dimitri. He squeezes my hand encouragingly under the table.

  The urge to look away is almost reflexive. Instead I force myself to look at every part of him. His shoulders, broader than the ones that used to hold me. His jaw, now defined and covered in the perfect amount of stubble. He is incredibly sexy. But none of that helps. It all makes him feel foreign, it all belongs to Dimitri the stranger.

  Then I find it: the scar on his right ear. I reach my hand out, tenderly stroking the remains of the lost memory. Sasha, Dima, and I were playing hide-and-seek in the woods when Dima cut it on a thorn. We didn’t know ears could bleed so much, and all three of us were afraid by the time we made it back to the palace. How old were we? Eight and ten, nine, and eleven?

  “Darling, do you remember the time when Baba Zhenya taught me to make piroshki?” I laugh, my voice loud enough to echo through the too-quiet room.

  “I’m not sure you learned much that day.” He returns my laugh and brushes my hair back almost lovingly. “I seem to remember you sneaking out, covered in flour, determined not to miss out on whatever we were up to.”

  With no other conversations to compete with, we hold the attention of the entire room. The guests in the front listen and laugh as though they’re a part of our conversation. The ones in the back strain their necks, annoyed at being left out.

  “Well, that didn’t last long, did it? Zhenya found me, dragged me back, and forced me to make the most dreadful piroshki in history!” I cut off a piece of the piroshki now in front of me, spear it with my fork, and feed it to him.

  “It was good.” Dimitri’s lie is blatant, and the room erupts with laughter. Their reaction encourages me to give them more.

  “Sasha spit it out. Even Zhenya wouldn’t take more than a bite. The bread was hard as a rock, and I burned the cabbage!” I laugh, remembering that day. “Mama ate a whole pie; that was a testament to her love for me.” I cringe as I share these sacred memories with a room full of strangers. It feels wrong. No one here deserves this part of me. And I lay it before them as an anecdote. But I suppose it is a small price to pay for the reward I seek.

  Dimitri runs his fingers through my hair and looks deep into my eyes. “I also ate the whole thing. And felt lucky because you brought it to me, still covered in flour, wearing that yellow apron. So what does that say about me?”

  I can’t believe he remembers the yellow apron.

  “You needed a liter of water to choke it down. I knew you were lying when you claimed to love it.” I feel the old ache in my chest. I smile at him with all the adoration I once felt. “But I appreciated the lie.” I stroke his cheek, and he leans his forehead into mine.

  “How old were you?” The ambassador from Italy asks.

  “I was fourteen, she was twelve. Much too young to be so beautiful.” He kisses my cheek. “That was the summer I started to realize I was in serious trouble,” he says to the smiling room. “She was too young to kiss, but I knew I wanted to be the first.” He laughs, and the room joins him.

  I remember that summer now. I appreciated every bit of attention I got from Dima. I was already developing a serious crush on the boy who was decidedly off-limits as my brother’s best friend. I tried to hide how much his smiles lit me up.

  “Kiss her already.” Someone yells from the crowd, and a blush spreads across my face. Dimitri smiles, his old Dima smile I thought was gone for good. A chasm splits open in my heart. But before the familiar sadness can break through my performance, Dimitri leans in to kiss me. It’s passionate and feels so real I find myself wanting to forget it’s all for the crowd and pretend that it’s just for me.

  I hear clapping, and I pull away from him with heat burning my cheeks. But he’s not ready to let me go and pulls me back in for one more kiss. The crowd loves it. They clap even more.

  Dimitri stands and raises his glass. “Let’s toast to friendships, loyalty, and love.” He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses it softly, looking deep into my eyes. My heart swells against my will. “Zdarovye!” He raises his glass, and everyone follows suit.

  The formality has faded, and behind the fine clothes we find the people. People who have mothers that taught them to cook, and failed baking experiments. Boys who loved girls.

  The spell of silence is broken. Conversations warm the room.

  I catch my father’s eye. He nods approvingly. I smile shakily at him.

  Some of the foreign women are now trying the piroshki with interest rather than wrinkled noses.

  Dimitri places his arm around me, slides me closer to him, and nuzzles into my ear. “You’re magnificent.”

  His eyes spark with excitement, and he squeezes my hand under the table, letting me know I’m giving a worthy performance.

  Of course he will be happy with this exploit. If my father is happy, Dimitri is happy. If we look powerful, he becomes more powerful.

  But as I look across the room of the now smiling, talking, and eating guests, I can’t help but think what this night should have been.

  Sasha should have taken the spotlight so I didn’t have to. My mother should have been laughing at our banter. Dima should have been by my side, not Dimitri. I corral the sadness into a corner of my mind and fix the smile back on my face.
>
  No matter what should have been, this is the reality. I’m here. Dimitri is here. My father is here. Somewhere beyond this room, dark and void of hope, are the little ones I could not save and the little ones I must save.

  I’m in a room full of people. And yet I am very much alone.

  The dance hall is not as large as the ballrooms in the European palaces, but it is as ornate as anything I’ve experienced. The walls gleam with gold that shimmers across the wood patterns laid into the ballroom floor. Waiters make their way through the room distributing champagne flutes, and everyone seems to glimmer. From the shimmering dresses to the glittering jewels, money and influence glide across the dance floor. I’ve always felt out of place in this life.

  The orchestra begins to play, and Dimitri leads me onto the floor to start the first dance.

  I nuzzle my face into his neck, close my eyes, and breathe in that familiar scent. I’ve been pretending all night for everyone else. Now I pretend for myself. This is my Dima, good and honorable. We’re marrying because we choose to. Mama and Sasha are here. Sasha is my father’s right hand, and Dima is mine. I lean in closer to him.

  Dimitri wraps his arms more tightly around me, and my body responds to the contact I’m so deprived of. I follow its lead. Dimitri leans his cheek against my head, and together we hold each other as though we don’t care about anything else. For a moment, it might even be the truth.

  The dance ends, and Dimitri places a gentle kiss on my forehead.

  “Another dance?” His voice is like velvet.

  I nod. Partly because it’s expected. And partly because pretending is infinitely easier than what I must do.

  I can’t accept his protection, his sweet moments, or cling to the love we shared. Not when it means I must ignore the rest.

  Instead, I will manipulate and dig until I can find a way to bury him, my father, and every other corrupt man in this country. That thought is both exhilarating and heartbreaking.

  I feel Dimitri stiffen next to me, and it jolts me back to reality. I look up and follow his gaze. He’s calculating, focused on two men who have vodka in their glasses and a menacing look in their eyes.

  “Excuse me. I need to clean something up,” he states with the cold detachment I’ve come to hate. He leads me toward the edge of the floor and deposits me next to a waiter with a tray of champagne glasses. “Wait here,” he instructs before departing.

  I don’t know why I feel slighted as he walks away. Of course, while I’ve been imagining what our lives could have been, he has been monitoring the room.

  The waiter bows slightly, and I take the flute.

  Next to me, a woman removes another glass from the tray. “Pozdravlyayu,” she says and clinks glasses with me before kissing me on the cheek.

  Mariana Evgeny smiles cruelly at me. I give her my most haughty smirk in return.

  Mariana was one of my few approved friends growing up. Friendships were not based on personality or interest but rather net worth. We couldn’t stand each other. Her father is foreign secretary to the Council and, until today, I always thought he was more slimy than mine.

  “Spasiba.” I reply without any real gratitude behind my thanks.

  “It’s been too long, Yulia. And this engagement was quite the shock,” she says with a conspiratorial look on her face.

  “Was it?” I reply with a raised eyebrow. “We’ve been intended for each other since we were children. I assumed people were waiting for the announcement.”

  It’s a lie of course. But what do I care if she believes it or not?

  “It’s just that he’s always been so active with other women. It’s only been a few weeks since he and I . . . Well, that doesn’t matter now.” Her smile widens as mine falters.

  “Well, both of us may have been a little too free before the engagement was announced,” I lie, trying to reframe the story in a less damning way for Dimitri and less humiliating for me.

  “Certainly. Before the engagement.” She smirks, enjoying my discomfort and this new power she has over me. “Tell Dimitri I enjoyed seeing him at my father’s Victory Day celebration.”

  Victory Day was only two weeks ago. I tighten my lips and refuse to display how much it cuts me. I shouldn’t care. Dimitri doesn’t love me. I’m planning to take him down. It should be a relief; this revelation means I won’t have to feel guilt over betraying him. But anger thrums in my ears and pulses through my limbs. He slept with Mariana while engaged to me. Are there other women?

  This could undo all of the performances of the last month. What if the press found out? Would I have to stand in front of the cameras and publicly forgive him?

  The thought makes me sick. I’ve sold enough of my soul.

  I feel myself unraveling, and I can’t do that here.

  I turn to Mariana. “Consider it your final farewell. It would be wise for you both to keep that secret. My father’s determination around this marriage is intense. Your actions would displease him greatly. And I don’t have to tell you what that would mean.” I tip my glass to Mariana as her face drains of color. “Now, if you’ll excuse me I need to speak with the staff about their champagne choice. Mine’s a little flat.”

  I walk toward the staff door, smiling at every face I pass, although none of them register.

  Just before I reach the door, an unfamiliar man stops me. “Dimitri would like you to meet him for a private conversation. There’s a bench at the edge of the woods, underneath a shade tree. Do you know the spot?”

  I look over at Dimitri, who seems fully engrossed with the men he had pointed at earlier. He must have seen me speaking with Mariana. He’s probably thinking of excuses and lies already. I wish I had something equally hurtful up my sleeve.

  The man at the door continues. “He’ll be there as soon as he finishes his conversation. I’ll walk you there.” He mistakes my lack of answer for me not knowing where to go.

  “I know my way around my own home. Tell Dimitri not to keep me waiting.” I snap and walk through the servants’ door, wanting to arrive ahead of Dimitri so I can craft my reaction. My feet lead me down a well-known path. I’ve escaped events through these back halls many times before. The tightness in my throat propels me faster. I don’t want to hear his excuses or apologies. I also don’t want to hear him dismiss his actions as inconsequential. I can’t decide which is worse.

  I reach the unruly and forgotten part of the garden at the edge of the woods. I’ve come here often to escape the unhappiness that lives inside the palace.

  I run my hand over the cool surface of the marble and let it stoke my fire. I hear the crack of someone stepping on a tree branch behind me, and I stand, hungry to begin this fight with Dimitri.

  But it’s not Dimitri skulking toward me. It’s the skeleton man that threatened me at the orphanage today. Kostya.

  “How fortunate to find you here,” he declares.

  “What are you doing here?” I adopt the demanding tone so often used by my father and Dimitri.

  “I have a message for Dimitri.” His answer is calm enough. But everything about this man screams danger.

  “He’s supposed to meet me here. But if you walk with me to the palace, I expect we’ll find him on the way.”

  Kostya laughs. “You misunderstand me, Yulia. You’re the message.”

  Chapter 9

  “Dimitri’s not coming.” Kostya leers, and instinct warns me to get away from this man. “It was so kind of your father to invite my family tonight. To smooth over the misunderstanding from this morning. I sent my men inside to occupy Dimitri while they brought you to me.”

  He grins, highlighting his overly defined cheekbones and sunken eyes. I’ve spent enough time at addiction recovery sites to recognize the signs of heavy drug use.

  I take a step back. “You’re on a security camera right now. Don’t come near me, or you’ll be shot.” I don’t understand why he would risk this threat when our security is on high alert for the party tonight.

  “
Yulia, Yulia, Yulia . . .” The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “I know exactly how extensive your cameras are, and my team of hackers has ensured that the guards watching this pretty little bench haven’t seen you. And they certainly haven’t seen me.”

  “We have foot patrols.” My confidence wavers.

  “Da. And they were here about ten minutes ago. You have such extensive grounds.” He spreads his arms wide, and we both understand. No one is coming for a while.

  I don’t wait to hear what else he has to say. I pick up my dress and run as fast as I can. For a moment I think I might get away. Then I feel his arms grip me tightly, and he growls into my ear. “You cost me a lot of money today. I don’t like losing money.” His hands are rough, and his breath reeks of rot and decay.

  Adrenaline courses through me, making me feel bolder and stronger. I ram my elbow into his stomach, and when he doubles over I ram it into his face. He stumbles back and I run as fast as I can toward the lights of the palace, praying and hoping that he will stay down long enough for me to run into some guard. I hear him bumbling behind me, yelling and cursing, and I push myself even faster.

  I’m nearing the edge of the hedgerows when I smash into something solid. I push away, frantic for escape, but the something is a someone.

  Strong arms grasp mine. I pull harder, desperate to free myself.

  “Yulia.” Dimitri pulls me against his chest, forcing me to be still. “What happened?”