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“Care to let me take a peek, or should I wait for your response?”
My eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t dare.”
He scoffed. “You think you know me so well.”
“I do,” I shot back. “You’re just a self-absorbed, manipulative psycho who gets off on seeing others suffer.”
“And what are you? A damsel in distress?”
“Yes,” I responded with a resigned sigh.
His smug grin widened as his eyes scanned me from head to toe, his hand idly stroking his chin. “Go upstairs and change.”
“I can’t. My leg hurts too much,” I shrugged, pointing at my sore leg.
Suddenly, concern flickered across his face. He knelt down and lifted the hem of my dress to check my leg, but I protested.
Ignoring my objection, he firmly grabbed my ankle.
“What the hell are you doing?” I said, placing my hand on his shoulder to steady myself.
He remained silent, his hands around my calf, his face close to the cuts on my legs. His touch burned against my skin, creating goosebumps on my legs. As his fingers gently trailed over the cuts, heat bloomed in my stomach.
After a moment, he rose to his feet, his expression hardened. “I’ll call the doctor tomorrow. Follow me.”
He then turned around and left.
I stood there speechless, feeling frozen in place, my skin still tingling where his fingers had grazed.
Was he… concerned?
No!
He’s just an asshole, Sofiya.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped onto the cold floor, shivering, and entered the room. My eyes swept across the dining room, taking in the exquisite decor and the long, dark dining table adorned with delicate china and sparkling crystal glasses.
However, my attention was quickly captivated by a tall, slender blonde girl standing by the window, her gaze lost in the depths of the surrounding dense forest.
I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy at her effortless beauty.
Who was she? A friend, relative, or… girlfriend?
Feeling out of place, I hesitated near the entrance.
As I stood there, the girl turned, locking eyes with me.
“Zdravstvuyte, Hello, Sofiya,” she said, stepping forward and pulling me into a hug.
“She doesn’t speak Russian,” Volk mumbled, reaching for his crystal glass of whiskey and swallowing a large gulp.
With an apologetic smile, she introduced herself and shook my hand warmly. Her name was Marina Kruglov, and her smile was so contagious that I couldn’t help but smile too.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Marina said with a chuckle. “You’re quite the topic of conversation around town.”
I let out an embarrassed laugh. “Really?”
Volk remained stoic, and the tension between us was palpable.
