Page 34 of Carved in Ruin

“It’s nothing like that,” he snaps, his gaze shifting to the side.

“It better not be,” I warn. “She’s marrying the Pakhan. He’ll hang you by your balls if he even suspects anything.”

He curses under his breath, “k chertu eto.”

I sigh, shaking my head as I turn back toward the car. I slide into the passenger seat, my fingers trembling just slightly as they brush over the smooth card in my pocket. Anatoly gets in beside me, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles pale as he starts the engine.

I lean my head against the cool glass of the car window. My thoughts are loud, but the streets outside are louder. Then I see it—a hair salon tucked between a bakery and a bookstore. The fluorescent sign flickers, almost like it’s calling to me.

“Stop the car,” I say suddenly, sitting upright.

“What?”

“I said stop,” I repeat firmly. “Pull over.”

He mutters something under his breath, but he obeys, steering the car to the curb. I push the door open before he’s even fully stopped.

The bell above the door jingles as I step inside. The air smells faintly of chemicals and shampoo. A young woman behind the counter looks up, surprised.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

“Do you have room for a walk-in?”

She glances around the salon, her eyes landing on an empty chair near the back. “I think we can fit you in. What are you looking to do?”

I don’t hesitate. “I want to chop it off. To my shoulders.”

Her eyes widen slightly, darting to my long hair, then back to my face. “Are you sure? You have beautiful hair—”

“I’m sure,” I cut her off.

She nods and motions for me to follow her to the chair. Maybe this is what I need, a small rebellion to remind myself I’m still alive.

The hairdresser hesitates before gathering my hair into a long ponytail. “We do donations, if you’re interested,” she hums.

“Donations?”

“Yes, for people going through treatments—cancer, alopecia, things like that.”

I nod slowly. “Then donate it.”

Even if I spent the rest of my life giving, it wouldn’t erase the blood on my hands. She smiles before cutting my hair. I’m breaking one of my father’s rules again. He’s going to be livid.

Good. Let him.

When she’s done, she hands me a mirror, showing me the blunt cut resting just above my shoulders. I love it, it suits my face.

“Are you happy with it?” she asks carefully.

“It’s great.”

I pay in cash, sliding a generous tip across the counter. Her eyes widen at the amount, but she doesn’t comment. As I step back outside, the cold air bites at my neck, unprotected now.

Anatoly doesn’t say a word at my new look, just opens the door for me. I slide into the seat, folding my arms tightly across my chest.

He drives, and we arrive, I have no idea what awaits me. Just as my knuckles hover to knock, the door swings open.

My father’s face contorts as his gaze sweeps over me, stopping at my hair. Disgust drips from his voice as he snarls, “What is this?”

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