"The truth is rarely pure and never simple."~Oscar Wilde
Vasilisa Smirnov
"Fuck," I groaned softly, still trying to grasp my surroundings. Morning light filtered through the blinds, and the first thing I noticed was the unfamiliar weight pressing against me. My head felt heavy, throbbing slightly, but as I blinked, trying to clear the fog, a jarring realization snapped me wide awake.
I wasn't wearing my clothes.
Instead, a man's jacket hung loosely over my shoulders, barely holding up against my form. The sleeves covered my palms outrageously, leaving quite an enormous amount of space. Apart from the jacket, there was a towel loosely wrapped around my waist. My brows furrowed in confusion as I glanced around, trying to recall what exactly had warranted this entire situation.
Then I saw him.
Alexei was sitting casually in a chair beside me, looking entirely too relaxed for someone in this twisted situation. He was watching me, that unreadable expression plastered on his face as if he hadn't a care in the world. My brain could be slow sometimes, but at this very moment, it was very quick to assemble the pieces of what would be a horrifying nightmare.
"What the hell did you do to me?!"
My voice came out weak, not as loud as I would have wanted. I peered into the neckline of the shirt and realized I was completely naked underneath. My breasts brushed against the sheer fabric, and the towel was just above my hips—any little movement and it would fall apart, exposing my innermost parts.
He sent me a completely unbothered glance, moving his eyes across my fists that were tightly clutching the collar of what I now assumed to be his jacket. His eyes scanned my wide eyes for a few seconds before he spoke up.
"You were bleeding," he said evenly, his tone so maddeningly calm it made me want to punch him. "Your bandages needed changing."
"You fucking undressed me!" My voice cracked. I wanted to scream again, but the words faltered, barely managing to stumble out of my lips.
His mouth twitched into what almost looked like a scoff, but his eyes stayed cold, detached as if he wasn't physically present, having this conversation. "Relax, Lisa. I didn't see anything I haven't seen before."
The nonchalance, the audacity of his words, sent my blood boiling. I couldn't believe him. How dare he sit there and act like this was no big deal, like I was overreacting?
"What—" I sputtered, red-hot anger clawing at my insides. "You think this is funny? Do you get some kind of thrill out of this? Taking advantage of me while I'm unconscious—"
"Taking advantage of you?" His eyes sharpened, cutting through my accusations like a blade. He stood up, moving with the precision of a predator—slow, deliberate. "That's a bold assumption, Lisa. I don't get involved with clients. Ever. And if I did, you can't even dream of being my type."
His words hit me like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of me. I opened my mouth, but no words came. His type? He had the nerve to say that to me? A swirl of emotions rushed through me—humiliation, disbelief, and a sickening kind of confusion that twisted in my stomach. I wanted to retort, to defend myself, but I felt off-balance, thrown by how easily he dismissed me.
"You—"
"Listen carefully," he cut me off, his voice dropping to something darker, more menacing. "You were injured, bleeding all over the damn place. I did what had to be done to keep you alive. If that offends your sensibilities, too bad. But don't you dare accuse me of something as disgusting as taking advantage of you."
His words struck hard with dizzying force, and for a few seconds, I was momentarily flabbergasted. He stepped closer, his towering presence casting a shadow over me, and I instinctively moved back into the mattress, the headboard digging into my shoulder. His empty eyes bore into mine, bereft of any emotion.
"I don't care what you believe, but I have no interest in playing games with spoiled little girls like you."
Spoiled? Little girl? I wanted to scream, to shout at him, but my words had decided to elude me under his wrath, leaving me with just an open mouth full of unspoken thoughts. My body shook, both from the intensity of my emotions and from the aftershocks of the fever that still clung to my skin like static. My breathing was ragged, but I couldn't find the strength to fight back. Instead, I closed my eyes, trying to rein in the insults and to stop myself from feeling hurt, but I couldn't help it—his words were raw and heavy, just like everyone else. I wasn't surprised he hated me.
I opened my eyes to see that Alexei had already backed away, his cold demeanor returning. His expression softened ever so slightly, but it wasn't a look of sympathy—it was more like quiet exasperation, as if he was tired of dealing with me. "Though you'd have a better chance of being my type when your mouth is closed."
I didn't bother replying. Instead, I glanced around the room, wondering why it felt so different. My eyes immediately fell on the empty door frame, and a scoff escaped my lips.
I had totally forgotten everything that happened yesterday, but the memories all came rushing back with force, each one I recalled further strengthening my hatred for Alexei.
"My love," a shrill voice echoed, and immediately, Alexei stood on guard beside my bed. He was only clad in a t-shirt—the least amount of clothing I had ever seen him in. It was probably because I was wearing his leather jacket.
I couldn't hide my disgust as my stepmother stepped into my room. Her eyes lingered on the empty door frame, but she didn't say anything. Instead, her beady gaze landed on me.
Could I just get a break?
She clasped a tray in her hand as she made a beeline for me, dressed in clothes that were too lavish for a Saturday morning. I eyed her warily, and so did Alexei.
She sent Alexei a masked glance before it morphed into a sickeningly sweet smile as she settled on the bed beside me.
"Mr. Voronin, would you like to have breakfast?" she offered politely, cocking her head to the side to stare at him. "My daughter is whipping up something downstairs if you would like to join her?"
My eyes flickered to Alexei, and he didn't budge. He didn't even acknowledge her presence other than resting a hand against his waist as if at the ready.
She hummed when he didn't reply, turning her attention back to me.
"How do you feel, love?" she asked, proudly sporting her fake smile and unable to hide the malicious intent in her eyes. She reached out a clawed finger to caress my cheek. I almost shrunk away from her touch, itching to roll over to the other side of the bed, but I wouldn't give her that satisfaction. "I made some chicken soup for you."
She pointed toward the bowl of steaming liquid that sat elegantly on the tray. For how long was she going to keep this up? Countless times she had locked me up in my room without caring about what I would eat.
"I'm fine," I barked out in a clipped tone, pushing the outstretched plate away.
She made a move to speak, but Alexei's booming voice cut through her unspoken words.
"I'm going to need you to taste that."
She stared at him incredulously, her mouth opening and closing a couple of times.
My eyes peeled away from Alexei's unwavering expression and back to her face, and for a moment, a passing fear lingered in her eyes.
It made me wonder... Did she...?
"Y-you can't be serious," she blurted out in disbelief, glancing at me for backup. "I would never hurt my own daughter."
Maybe, a few years ago, the foolish me would have agreed, but now, I didn't trust a single soul.
The way her fingers shook and her eyes glanced toward Alexei's waist, where his hand rested above the gun tucked into his waistband, set me on edge, and I wasn't liking this situation one bit.
"I won't repeat myself," he gritted out, reaching down to push the bowl towards her. "Now."
Her hands shook desperately as she brought the bowl to her lips.
My pulse raced as I watched with bated breath...