“She’s a whore! A lying whore!”
I aimed my gun at Abram’s head.
“Wait—” He didn’t get to finish whatever lie he was about to spew.
One after another, three pops cut through the air like a knife.
clinomania
(n.) an excessive desire to stay in bed
I thought Yulia was a bad maid, but that was before I had her as a nurse. She plumped the pillow beneath my head like she was beating a lump of dough and pulled a piece of my hair in the mix.
With a resentful glance, I shied away from her. “Thank you, but my pillow is fine.”
She raised a brow before sliding a mischievous look away to mess with the tray of food at my bedside.
“I’m not hungry,” I said.
She ignored me and made a show of adding sugar to my tea. As if I’d ever drink tea again.
I’d stayed in bed for two days, and with each second that passed, I grew sicker of it. The only thing that kept me here was the knowledge someone in this house hated me so much they’d poisoned me. And then, my thoughts chanted I was an awful person for what happened to Adrik and that I deserved it.
My mind was a terrible place.
Yesterday, Kirill deemed me as good as new. Ronan, however, hadn’t shown his face since he carried me to my room and stripped me naked. I didn’t know what I expected. Certainly not an apology for what happened. But a simple, “Glad to see you’re not dead,” would be nice. He hadn’t even sent me a misogynistic note threatening me to eat.
Once again, it seemed I wasn’t a part of his thoughts, while he kept popping into my mind like a game of Whac-A-Mole—especially after he looked me in the eye and told me his mother drove him into a river when he was eight. I said I wouldn’t sympathize with him, but it was hard when he threw his tragic past in my face. I prayed Ronan wouldn’t talk about being an orphan living on the streets. Otherwise, I may as well just tie my hair back in preparation for signing over my soul.
When Yulia lifted a spoonful of soup to my mouth, I turned my head away in exasperation. She’d taken this nursing routine above and beyond just to irritate me. I wasn’t a paraplegic. In fact, the only thing I would die from at this moment was her attention.
The spoon tipped slightly—Yulia might be an old maid, but her hands never shook—and a drip of hot soup spilled onto my T-shirt. I grumbled, “Seriousl—?” The word was cut short by her shoving the spoon into my mouth.
I spit it out with venom. Nonchalantly, she pulled the spoon away to fill it again. I threw the comforter back and jumped out of bed, shooting her a scowl.
“You must eat, devushka.”
“I told you, I’m not hungry. And I’m not staying in that ridiculously comfortable bed anymore. Point me in the direction of the dungeon. I’ll room there for the rest of my stay.” I was The Princess and the Pea. Except the pea was the twisted dejection I was almost killed and then promptly forgotten by a man who fingered me on a secret camera and sent the video to my papa. Gen-Zs wouldn’t know romance if it hit them with a bus.
“You act like someone has forced you to pout for two days.”
I was not pouting. “Would you go traipsing about a house occupied by someone who wants to kill you?”
“I excel at many things, but God did not create me to be nurse.”
“No kidding.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I do not wish to nurse you while you sulk, so I tell you, the men who tried to kill you are dead.”
I swallowed. “Dead?”
“Mertvy.” Dead. Picking up the bowl of soup, she said, “I had to wash their brains off the drive.” Then she sipped her spoonful like a lady.
Blood growing cold, I managed to say, “Lovely.”
She shrugged. “It is job.”
I rubbed my arm to quell the goose bumps that rose, as well as another disturbing sensation: a lightness, a deranged contentment Ronan had killed those men.