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Her jaw falls to the floor. “I’m sorry, is that a… like, a figure of speech or something?”
“You tell me.”
She swallows hard and her eyes slide away as though she can’t bear to look at me anymore. “You’re not kidding. You’re really not.”
Her fear is tangible in the confined space of the car, slick on my skin like spilled oil. It’s taken mere seconds and I’ve completely destroyed the innocent little snow globe model of the world she had in her head.
It’s not all sunshine and roses out there. It’s ugly and it’s violent. She’s just now starting to learn that, and if she’s a little late to the party… well, that’s not my fault. I’d go so far as to say it’s Adrian’s, actually.
Naivete may be useless, but there’s a kind of beauty in it nonetheless.
And he always did like finding beautiful things just so that he could destroy them.
“Y-you’re really taking me to your place?” she stammers after a silent minute has passed. “Why?”
“Because you’re not capable of taking care of yourself.”
“Who are you to judge anything about me?” she demands. A flash of that fire peeks through again.
Oh, little lamb. You should be very, very careful how you talk to me.
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
She settles back in her seat and watches the road with razor sharp alertness. Her neck cranes after every sign we pass and every notable landmark that zips by. I can practically hear the gears in her head churning.
“Adrian is gone,” she says in a small voice after some time has passed. “What could you possibly want with me?”
If I explained it to her, she wouldn’t believe me. So I don’t bother. I’m not in the habit of explaining things anyway. Whether she believes my intentions or not is immaterial. The bottom line is that I preserve what needs preserving.
When we reach my compound, she leans forward to stare up through the windshield at the spires and turrets rising up over the black studded gates.
“This is where you live?” She turns to eye me, half-amazed and half-repulsed. “It’s a freaking castle.”
“Are all artists prone to hyperbole?”
Her forehead wrinkles. “I’m not an artist.”
“You were a dancer.”
The frown deepens. “The operative word being ‘was.’ I’m not a dancer anymore.” Her voice is bitter, salted through with old pain.
The gates unfurl inward, and we take the limestone drive up to the gravel-strewn circle resting in front of the house. My mood is bleak today, and the house suits it perfectly. All dark stone and stark lines, without much in the way of embellishments aside from gargoyles leering above the entryway. I’ve always been partial to gargoyles.
The moment the car is in park, my men erupt out of the woodwork as though I’ve triggered some silent alarm. June’s eyes dart from side to side in panic.
“Wh-what’s going on?”
“Calm down. Get out of the car.”
She doesn’t do either thing. Instead, she turns to me, defiance battling with self-preservation in her eyes. “Who the hell are you?”
I don’t bother answering her. Instead, I give my men the order with a nod of my head. June’s door is pulled open and she’s ripped out of the car.
“No!” she screams. The girl’s got some lungs on her. “Let me go! Kolya, come back! You can’t do this!Kolya!”
I get out of the car, stand in place, and watch her go. I want so badly to intervene, to calm her fears—which is exactly why I don’t. I can’t let something as mundane as sentiment get in the way of my better judgment.
Adrian did that, and look at where it got him.
