I feel better with the denim tight against my legs, the cotton soft and breathable against my arms. Less like an ornament. More like myself. Whoever that still is.
My reflection in the tall mirror is strange—tired eyes, flushed cheeks, lipstick faded into a smudge.
I’m brushing my hair out when the door swings open without a knock.
Of course.
“What the hell are you wearing?”
Pyotr’s voice grates on my nerves, like I’ve broken some unspoken code of presentation for the man who bought me.
I don’t turn around right away. I take my time. When I do, my arms are folded, my expression blank. “For your information,” I say coolly, “Konstantin asked me to change.”
He flinches like I struck him. “Don’t call him by his name.”
“Would you prefer I call him master?”
“Don’t be clever,” he snaps. “You don’t know what kind of man he is.”
“No,” I say. “You don’t know what you’ve sold me into.”
He shuts the door behind him, too hard. “You think this is a game, walking around like this is some hotel stay? He’s the bastard son of Dmitry Buryakov.” Pyotr’s voice is low, as if even in this room, that name might carry too far. “You think the Bratva handed him his power? No. He carved it out of the dirt with his bare hands. Dmitry wouldn’t even look at him for the first ten years of his life. Treated him like a stain on his legacy. You know what that does to a man?”
I don’t answer.
Because I do know. I’ve seen it in Konstantin’s eyes.
Pyotr steps closer, lowering his voice. “He’s the most dangerous kind of man. Not just because he’s powerful, but because he was never supposed to be. He was made to be hungry. Ruthless. Determined to take everything his father denied him. And now you’re part of that. Congratulations.”
I keep my chin high. “You sold me, remember?”
“Don’t act like a martyr. You agreed.”
“I agreed,” I say, stepping toward him now, “because you threatened my son’s life with every choice you ever made.”
That silences him.
For a beat, we stare at each other, and I wonder how much longer I’ll have to carry his sins like they’re my own.
“Get out,” I say, voice calm.
He doesn’t move.
“I said get out.”
He scoffs, turning toward the door.
Then he pauses, his back still to me.
When he speaks again, his voice is lower. Controlled.
“There’s one more thing,” he says. I don’t move. “You don’t tell him about the children.”
My spine goes rigid.
He turns, watching me.
“You already told me not to, remember?”
