Chapter 37 THIRTY SEVEN

Chapter 37 THIRTY SEVEN


The last time I’d been within the four walls of my father’s house was the day I ran away five years ago. I’d left the house bleeding and bruised, knees torn, and mouth filled with blood because the bastard had beaten me to shit the night before.

He hated that I talked back. Hated that I asked questions, but when the door to my room flung open to me sprawled in my bed in nothing but a thin satin camisole and his tall frame filling the door as he announced that I was leaving his house the next morning because I was getting married to a Morozov, I protested with everything in me. It was the first time I ever looked at his face. The first time I ever talked back to him, and the first time I ever said no to his commands. No, I wasn’t going to marry anyone from the Morozov family. No, I wasn’t going to get married at all.

I’d said my no, and stood my ground while he glowered at me from the door. One second, it had just been some back and forth. The next, he was crossing the room towards me because saying no to Malachi Vescovi was like signing a contract with the devil that you were ready to die.

But I did everything but die that night. Dragged off the bed. Kicks to my gut. Blows to my face. Belt buckle to my ribs. He inflicted harm until I was too tired to breathe and all I could taste was the metallic taste in my mouth and the nasty mixture of the smell of iron and his manly sweat in the air.

He didn’t stop hitting me until the world was a blur in my eyes, spinning round and round and I stopped reacting to the hits—only then did he pull away. And that wasn’t the end of it; to add more to the shame and to remind me who was in power, he cracked phlegm in his throat and spat it flat over my face. ‘Puttana senza vergogna,’ he cursed at me before storming out of the room, leaving me writhing, groaning, and too tired to even cry on the tiles of my room.

I fought to keep my eyes open that night when all I wanted was nothing more than to die. I struggled to breathe when I wanted nothing more than for him to squeeze the breath from my lungs, putting an end to it all. Hours must have passed before I realized I wasn’t the only one dying in that room.

My mother, a woman who had just watched it unfold, stood by the door, face red in anguish and wet with tears, sobbing quietly, her shoulders quaking as she watched me, unable to even lift one finger off the floor.

In my head, I’d pictured myself in a wedding dress the next day. Bruised, still bleeding, still hurting as a ring was slid onto my finger. Because though the sharp white light in my room nearly blinded me, I could still catch the glinting of my mom’s diamond ring sparkling around her finger, too small for a finger that had grown much bigger than when the monster had put it on her, and I immediately saw a future I didn’t want for myself. I could already see that my marriage would become a prototype of my parents, where my mother always cried too softly to hide her pain while her husband dug the knife deeper into her rib, letting her blood lick with a smirk on his face.

I saw the future and didn’t want it. So… I ran. And… never looked back.

Five years passed, and here I was—slouched in the backseat of a Morozov’s SUV while I twirled my own ring around my fingers endlessly. The sound of my breath was so heavy, almost full-blown wheezing as I tried to steady the pound of my heart in my chest. I wasn't looking at the ring on my finger, but I twirled it round enough that the spot was starting to feel bruised and raw.

Outside the window, in the distance and close to the tree lines, Sergei and his men stood, talking to each other. Or rather, Sergei seemed on edge giving them orders, because their shoulders were slouched and their heads were bowed. Their shirts were bloodied, and I caught a few bruises here and there on their faces while I was being led through the woods. I recognized one as Rus, the short snarky bastard that had pointed a gun at my face last night. And unlike when we were at the church, he looked too sober to even look me in the eyes this time.

The other was Ova; blond, very tall, red-faced. I recognized him as the leader of the men that had kidnapped me. And even he too, looked, very… sober. Or… sad. I couldn't place it and it left me on edge. Especially because Sergei looked angry, gesturing wildly at them while still making sure to look in the direction of the car sitting idly on the road as if he could see right through the tinted windows.

I sank deeper into the seat, my breath trembling, the ring on my finger still turning. So many things, so many thoughts—I forced myself to breathe through it. Breathe, just, breathe. Count to ten. One. Two. Three… ground yourself to reality. The ring spun faster. The finger was starting to feel numb. Four. Five. Six.

One thing you can see: the driver's bald head up front.

Two things you can see: One, the trees dancing in sync to a weak breeze; two, Sergei's eyes glued to the car.

Three things you feel: One, dread; two, even more dread; three, smothering anxiety.

I closed my eyes just for the briefest second when the door opened and the warm scent of Sergei filled the car. And honestly, it did nothing to calm me, but instead intensified the pound of my heart. He sank into the chair opposite me. I heard him exhale deeply. Then, the car started moving.

No music this time.

I kept my eyes closed while my chest heaved and I tried to will myself to calm down. Every one of my nerves felt like they were being set on fire, and no matter how hard I tried to stabilize my breath, I just felt my chest constrict more and more. I heard the leather crinkle as Sergei slouched back. I could almost visualize him watching me beneath his baseball cap again with a nose mask over his face, something I was starting to think was a way to hide his scar from the world every time he stepped out of his little circle.

As the car glided smoothly down the road, he didn't say anything and I didn't open my eyes either. It was already embarrassing that I was having a mini panic attack because my system was shit and I couldn't regulate my nerves, so my eyes pressed shut tightly as I let the thoughts in my head try to drown me.

I thought about my mom. I thought about what reaction she'd have when she saw me standing on that porch after not being home for years. I wondered if she'd bawl or if she'd watch me with dry eyes while I stood there waiting for a hug from her.

Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts—

Sergei moved again; this time his voice followed. "What's wrong?"

It ripped me from my head and my eyes flew open. They were probably red, but I didn't care.

"What are you thinking?"

I tried to keep my voice leveled. "That's none of your business," but it still came out very gruff.

His eyes were dead beneath his cap. Always dead. As if he was bored with the concept of life and living itself.

"Is it something you want to—"

"Morozov, we're not friends." My voice was stern.

His was coaxing. "Yes, we're not friends because I put a ring on your finger, so consider me—"

"According to you, this is a contract…"

"You haven't heard the contract terms yet," he pointed out.

It did nothing but aggravate me even more. "I don't need to know the terms before I start acting like it."

For a few seconds… silence.

"Anya—"

"I don't want to talk."

"What exactly is the pr—"

"I really don't want to talk," I grumbled, wishing there was more to us than just a few feet of having him across from me.

"Ты горячая, когда ты такая, но мне не нравится этот характер," he said in Russian. I didn't know what he meant and I honestly couldn't care less at the moment. "You don't look so pleased."

"Well, newsflash, Sergei…" my breath trembled. "I'm not pleased. Is that what you want me to say? There. I'm not pleased. I'm sitting here and I'm overstimulated. I'm drowning, Sergei. I'm drowning in confusion…"

While my fingers were almost trembling, he was calm. I hate that he gets to be while I'm jittery, while I'm in this loop of confusion, while I don't know what the fuck was happening. If we were going to get killed… or anything for that matter. He looked calm while my mind was drowning me.

"What do you want to know?" I didn't know if he was offering to genuinely tell me or if this was some sort of sick tease.

I slouched almost to the bottom of the leather, the sharp smell of it nothing but putrid to me. "Forget it."

He looked perplexed. "You confuse me."

"I do? Me?"

"I'm offering to tell…"

"And I'm saying if you wanted to tell me from the start, I wouldn't even have to ask in the first place. What even is this thing about? I'm literally in a whirlpool in the middle of a clown festival. You kidnap me, you get married to me, the motive had been because you want me punished. And then… within minutes… you stepped out of the room for only a few minutes, Sergei. And then you come back inside and then… suddenly, there's a new thing. Suddenly, you're talking about a contract. A contract…"

He wasn't saying anything, and it did nothing but make me even more angry.

"And that's not the only thing…" I wasn't thinking about the words, just letting them slip from my mouth unchecked. "Earlier…" I sat up in the seat, nudging my head in the direction of the window as trees blurred past us. "Your man was saying something about a doctor's visit. What doctor's visit, Sergei?" He hadn't even moved, but the tug of his brows over his eyes stopped the words from spilling.

I caught myself too late. He was already frowning, already sitting up in the chair as the realization dawned on him. I panted, my heart thrashing in my chest as I slouched back into the seat like a pup retreating from a lion. He hadn't known I was listening to his conversation earlier, but now that I'd spilled it myself—his face, that had previously been as calm as still water—stirred up with a questioning look.

"You were listening?"

Words escaped me. "I—I—I heard it by—"

"You were listening to my conversation?"