Page 51 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

“Why?” she chokes out.

I should flat-out tell these two about Violet. Drop the bomb. Honestly, I’m not sure the woman can handle the blow. But I’ll give her the peace she needs. The peace I was denied.

And once they meet the real reason why I can’t let Sandrine go, everything will change forever.

Chapter 15

Sandrine

After breakfast, I showered, letting the hot water run over me longer than I’ve been allowed in years. I breathed in the steam curling thick around the glass and liked that it hid me, even from myself.

The entire bathroom was quite luxurious. There were no plastic dispensers bolted to the wall. Beautiful bottles filled with real hair products and sweet-smelling lotions were lined neatly along a shelf just under the mirrors. The scents smelled expensive.

I washed until my skin tingled, until I felt different. Maybe like my old self again, though I’m not entirely sure what that means anymore.

I dressed in clothes I was told were supposedly mine. The smaller-sized ones. I believe Kirill because they fit me. The sweater I chose is soft. It’s just clingy enough to feel snug and not tight. The jeans fit perfectly against my butt and thighs.

Only in Marlowe was I allowed to dress in regular clothes, but Elodie and Lourdes bought them for me. It was what they liked for me.

Looking down at myself, I smile, liking these on me. I don’t know if that comforts me or terrifies me. Are these people telling me the truth?

That thought pokes at my brain as I open the bedroom door to see what’s beyond these comfortable rooms Kirill gave me. The silence in the hallway feels like a trick, like it will suddenly turn into screeching chaos and knock out my eardrums.

If I’m supposed to live here and be some kind of queen, I should at least know the layout. I head down a long corridor lined with embroidered wallpaper and dark wood paneling. Wall sconces are dim for the time of day, and the only real light is a late-morning sun that filters through tall windows at both ends of the hallway.

It doesn’t feel like a prison, not the way the cell did. This place is nothing like Marlowe Rehab either. No watchful eyes, no clipboard, no schedule pinned to the wall dictating my day.

No meds. No needles. No questions.

I can use some time away from all that.

The hallway opens into a larger room. My breath catches as I take it in. It’s a library. The walls are lined with bookshelves, and there’s a table in the center. Under each window are soft plush chairs for reading in the sunlight or just sitting and staring.

Windows… I wonder if they’re locked.

Where would I go? Back to Marlowe? After five years of being in hospitals and facilities and being told what’s best for me, I’m not sure I want to go back. But I’m also not sure if I want to live here with that man.

Kirill.

He says I’m his wife, but he’s letting me sleep in another bedroom. Will we stay like that? Will I eventually have to sleep with him? And have…sex?

Something tingles at the thought of him on top of me. That handsome face, the square jaw, and burning blue eyes, rolling in the back of his head as he…

I shake that away and prepare to lose myself in a book. What else is there to do? Although I’d love to paint again. Maybe Kirill will buy me supplies. Or do I have my own money?

Hmmm. I approach the shelves that stretch from the floor to the ceiling. It’s filled with books arranged not just by size but by color. Subject matter would have been nice. A ladder rests along one wall attached to a worn brass rail.

I’ve seen these and always wanted to go for a ride. The metal is warm to the touch, and the closer I get to the books, the more overwhelmed I am by the scent of aged paper and their leather covers.

With no voice telling me to wait or ask permission, I climb up on the ladder. Moving where I want and touching what I want is a strange feeling of freedom.

Strangely wonderful.

I’m ready to push off, but a collection of thin volumes catches my attention. Glossy dust jackets over hardback covers stick out further than the other leather-and-gold raised ones. Pulling one free, I see these are art books. Lourdes sent me a few here and there.

The name on a cover catches my eye and clicks in my brain. Amon Fritz. My heart starts to pound. That’s the name the med student rattled off to me. Saying I copied his paintings. Anger roiling through me, I pull one book off the shelf completely.

A memory forms behind my eyes. But it’s not like the new ones I made after the accident. This one is fuzzy and hurts my head a little. Next, there’s a voice I can’t place, but it hits me like a spark in a dark room.