But I’d never actually witnessed it.
What I saw was nothing like the movies. It was horrifying and terrifying. It was my reality. I swayed.
“Come on. Sit down.” Dmitry led me over to one of the wrought-iron benches and gently pushed me down. I sank onto the cold metal and placed my head between my legs, feeling nauseous.
I heard the swish of a lighter and smelled the smoke from a cigarette. I lifted my head to see Dmitry standing several feet back. He had one tattooed hand shoved into the pocket of his suit, the other lifting as he brought the cigarette to his mouth and took another long pull from it.
We didn’t speak, me because I couldn’t find any words after what I’d just seen, Dmitry—maybe—because he didn’t care or because he felt like he was babysitting me.
I stared down at my hands, which I’d thrust between my knees to keep them from shaking. I curled my fingers tightly into my palms, my nails digging into the skin.
“Was this your first time?” he asked as he exhaled, a cloud of smoke filtering out of his mouth before dissipating in front of him.
Dmitry kept his back to me as he stared out at the gardens. I didn’t answer for a moment, and he didn’t pressure me, didn’t ask again. After taking a deep breath and forcing my hands out from between my knees, I rose and walked over to him.
I could feel the body heat emanating from him, or maybe it was just because I felt so cold?
“Yes, it’s my first time seeing somebody killed.”
He said nothing, didn’t even look in my direction. But I knew he was listening. I felt it. He took several more hits off his cigarette, flicking the ash away in between each hit.
“For as much of a piece of shit as your father is, I’m surprised he shielded you from violence in our world.”
As if by memory, all the parts of my body that my father had hit throughout my life tingled. My cheeks. My arms and legs. All the places where he’d left bruises. They came alive to remind me.
Even my bottom ached in memory from when he’d brought his belt across me when I was just ten years old because I’d spilled his bourbon accidentally.
“I said it was the first time I’ve seen someone killed. Not that I’ve never experienced violence.” I felt Dmitry look at me then, but I refused to meet his gaze. I doubted I’d see sympathy or empathy.
I didn’t think men like him could feel such emotions.
When he wasn’t looking away, I finally glanced at him, pulling back my shoulders and tipping my chin up in an act of defiance.
Amara always gave me a hard time about being too free-spirited and loudmouthed. It was why I angered my father constantly, but we got one life in this world, and I didn’t want to spend it cowering and being a submissive person when the result was still going to be the same, no matter what.
I was still going to be sold off like a piece of meat to the highest bidder, whether I was docile and quiet or kicking and screaming the entire way.
Might as well make my future husband work for it and regret ever taking me as his wife.
Dmitry smirked. “Thatta girl. Don’t let them see you scared. Don’t let them ever use your perceived weakness against you.” Dmitry faced the gardens again, taking a long drag as he rested his forearms on the stone banister that surrounded the back patio.
Although he showed no emotion, and there really wasn’t any inclination in his voice when he said that to me, I did smile and felt this swell of pride fill me.
Because I could tell that this man, who didn’t know me at all, made me feel like I was stronger than I gave myself credit for.
Chapter 3
Claudia
A WEEK AFTER THE WEDDING
I never realized how much life Amara had brought into the house until she was gone.
And after only a week of her being married off to Petrov, I was feeling the heavy weight and brunt of it settle around my shoulders.
Father had been busy with work, but when he was around, I stayed out of his way. I could hear him cursing and stomping, every little thing pissing him off.
He snapped at the staff, said horrible things to Mother, and demanded Gio go everywhere with him.
Then he’d be gone all hours of the night, sometimes not even coming home at all. I’d seen lipstick smeared on the collar of his button-down one morning, but I had said nothing.
Men in our world had mistresses. Mother knew. I knew. It was disgusting and disrespectful, and we were supposed to be okay with it.
The sound of silverware hitting plates, of a fire crackling in front of the dining room table didn’t drown out the oppressive silence that always seemed to cling to my father.