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She sighed. “You asked three questions, and I answered them all.”
She then handed me a black dress and a pair of sheer black tights from the bed that I reluctantly accepted.
“If you’re wondering whether I’m telling the truth or not, I understand, but you have to believe me, Sofiya.”
Raising my head, I took a step back just as her hand reached out to wipe the tears from my face.
“I won’t lie to you about your papa.” Her hand hesitated before dropping back down. “At least, not anymore.”
“Not anymore?”
Speechless and shaken by her revelations, I struggled to hold back the tears threatening to spill from my eyes. A profound sense of betrayal chilled my blood and pained my heart. Our eyes locked, and I could see in hers that she wasn’t lying, that this time, she was telling the truth.
Whenever she used to have information about my mama’s whereabouts or the secret hiding spots for my favorite snacks in the house, she would always deny knowing anything. But her eyes would dart from left to right, and the corner of her mouth would quiver slightly under my persistent gaze.
After numerous complaints and promises, Dasha would eventually give in and tell me everything I wanted to know.
“You certainly have a way with words, munchkin,” she once admitted, revealing a small box hidden under her bed.
It was the same box my mama had asked her to use as a hiding spot for my brand-new, very first iPhone. This all came about when, at the tender age of 13, I had dared to express my disdain for homework while we sat at the kitchen table, working on complicated math problems.
Dasha was busy preparing shrimp linguini pasta nearby.
I told her that I despised homework and saw no point in revising something that refused to stick in my head. The heat emanating from my mama’s furious eyes indicated that I had indeed crossed a line.
She wordlessly extended her hand, demanding my phone, which she then spirited away, not to be seen for days.
Nostalgic and still a bit disoriented by the dramatic turn the conversation had taken, I asked Dasha if I could at least have some clean undergarments.
A heavy silence hung in the room as I made my way to the bathroom.
There, I undressed and let the hot water soothe the ache in my heart. After my shower, I returned to her room, wrapped in a large towel.
Avoiding her eyes, I hurriedly donned the clothes she laid out, then sat on the bed to zip up a pair of tall black leather boots nearby. Surprisingly, they fit perfectly.
Whose clothes they were didn’t matter to me; I didn’t want to know.
A chill ran down my spine as I imagined the grim possibility that they once belonged to another abducted girl. I stared out of the window, mist still clinging to the glass from the early morning fog, memories and fear swirling in my mind.
Dasha brushed my hair, and I asked for a hair tie to keep it out of my face.
She checked her watch anxiously, tapping it twice, her face paling. It seemed like she was either worried about being late or about something far worse.
Her uneasy gestures made my own anxiety spike.
Questions flooded my mind, and I couldn’t help but ask her what was troubling her so much. She waved me off and hurried out, returning with a luxurious black fur coat.
As we walked through the hallways and down the stairs, Volk’s irritation was evident in his gaze. He sighed softly when our eyes met, guilt flooding me as I remembered the harsh words I’d thrown at him the night before. An unusual warmth pooled between my legs and tinged my cheeks as I reminisced about his lips on my neck.
Last night, while the world slept, I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, longing for sleep that never came.
Frustration bubbled up inside me as I kicked the covers aside, feeling a weight settle in my chest.
Our conversation in the library left me restless, craving something intangible.
Something sinful.
I stole another glance at him, impeccably dressed in his dark suit, his presence striking. It dawned on me then that I didn’t want to hurt him anymore; I just wanted out of this mess.
