Zero to Love by Em Petrova

voice rose sharply in volume, ending on a bark.
    She’d smoothed her hair and clothes before leaving Monroe’s apartment, but after spending hours in the throes of bliss, she probably could use some taming.
    Drawing a deep breath, she entered the study and closed the door behind her.
    “Magda, what’s going on?” He came around his desk, salt-and-pepper hair loose around his face, and his dark eyes seeing too much.
    “I want to know about the Free Wills.”
    The color drained from his face, and he swayed on his feet. She opened her mouth to say more, but he recovered and gripped her upper arm hard enough to leave fingerprints.
    “You’re hurting me.” Her voice was a hot whisper.
    “I don’t know where you heard that name and who you were with”—he wrinkled his nose as if catching an odor of rotting meat—“but we will not hold this discussion here.”
    Before she could process his words, he dragged her from the study. She tagged behind him to the base of the stairs. Her father tossed a glance over his shoulder, then wrenched her upward.
    “What are you doing? Stop it,” she cried.
    But he continued to yank her until she tripped and fell at the top of the stairs. He set off for her bedroom, his hand a vise biting into her flesh.
    Monroe wouldn’t like these bruises. A tremor of concern slithered down her spine.
    Her father shoved her into her bedroom and slammed them inside. With his back against the door he breathed heavily. For a moment she worried about his purple-red face and the way a vein in his neck throbbed. Was he going to have a stroke? She’d never seen him so upset, not even during his heated discussions with her uncle Vincent.
    Suddenly her mouth grew as desiccated as a desert. She licked her lips, but no moisture wet them. She swallowed hard, fear a knot in her throat, adding to the extreme need to drink.
    After crossing to her bedside table, she grabbed a bottle of soda she hadn’t finished the night before. When she uncapped it, the bottle only made a low hiss—no longer fizzy. She tipped it to her lips and gulped the remainder in a few swallows.
    Her father watched her, still plastered against the door, arms splayed as if to stop her from getting out. Or someone from coming in.
    “Where did you hear that term, Magda?”
    “What term?” she asked coolly.
    His color darkened. “You know what I’m talking about. Don’t play dumb with me. We both know your intelligence is more advanced than mi—than most.” His face was clean shaven, but a strand of his hair clung to a rough patch on his chin. He swiped it away.
    She tossed the empty bottle in the trash and turned to him fully. “The Free Wills, Daddy. They attacked me when I was little. It’s why I have so few memories of my childhood. Why I can’t remember M-Mom.”
    At the mention of her mother, his face paled once more, turning a pasty white that surely echoed the condition of his heart under the stress of this conversation. Remorse flooded her.
    A long silence crash-landed between them, fraught with thick and sticky threads of some emotion she didn’t understand. His gaze darted to the lamp in the corner. Magda followed his line of sight, her attention snared by the intricate metal curls and fine glass. As fine as cotton candy. As light as a wisp of thought.
    “Why didn’t you tell me?” Her voice was choked.
    He wiped the corner of his eye. “It killed me that they took that away from you, Magda. Memories that could never be replaced.”
    “But you didn’t help me replace them. You won’t talk about her—never have. There isn’t a picture in this house. I don’t even know what she…looked like.” Tears clotted her throat, and she blinked to keep the drops from falling from her lashes.
    Her father wiped his other eye. “She looked much like Elijah. But you have her mouth.”
    She twisted to face away, unable to hear more. The urge to dig into his mind and yank out his visions of her mother burned in Magda’s