Page 57 of Beautiful Cruelty

"You'll know how to remove it this time."

"Olive oil." She smooths the front of her dress, her eyes never leaving mine. "Coconut if it's platinum."

I'm acutely aware of every movement Lacey makes: from the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, to the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathes.

But above all else, I'm aware of the way her eyes look at me. Not with disgust or anger or resistance, but with a genuine concern.

As if she cares about me.

Something is shifting between us. The playful spark from before has transformed into something deeper, something far more dangerous. Each shared glance carries a fresh weight—one that speaks of recognized pain and hidden wounds.

We eat in silence, but it's not entirely uncomfortable. Somehow, it feels… right.

Demyon's words echo in my head.

"What if by the time this ruse is over, you realize that youcan'tlet her go?"

This was supposed to be a simple arrangement. A means to an end.

But now I'm not so sure.

Maybe I never was.

16

LACEY

My ankle throbswith each step as Lenka helps me back to my room. The crutches clack against the floors, echoing through the empty halls of Pankration.

"I warned you to not ask about his mother," Lenka says, her weathered features tight with concern.

"I know." My voice comes out small. "I just thought... since we're supposed to be getting married..."

"Every marriage has boundaries,devushka. Fake ones most of all." Lenka helps me settle onto the edge of the bed, propping the crutches against the nightstand. "Some wounds run too deep to expose so carelessly."

I fidget with the hem of my dress. "What about Pyotr? Can you at least tell me about him?"

Lenka's face darkens. "Pyotr Stravinsky was a monster who delighted in causing pain. That is all you need to know."

"But—"

"No." Lenka's voice carries a sharp edge I haven't heard before. "If Vadim Petrovich wishes to share these stories with you, he will do so in his own time. Do not push him."

My chest tightens at her words. I want to ask more—about the alarm in Vadim’s eyes when he looked at me on that table, about the unmistakable pain in his voce when he said that his mother was not a topic of discussion, and about what kind of monster Pyotr truly was.

But the set of Lenka's jaw tells me I won't get any more answers tonight.

"I understand," I say quietly.

"Good." Lenka's expression softens slightly. "Now rest that ankle. Tomorrow will be a long day."

I stare at the closed door, finally alone with my racing thoughts.

My fingers trace idle patterns on the silk bedspread. In my twenty-seven years, I've seen plenty of pain and alarm—in Mom’s eyes during her final days, in Dad’s confused gaze as dementia erases more and more of him with each passing day.

But none of those hold a candle compared to what I just saw from Vadim.

A chill runs through me despite the warmth of the room. What kind of horror can make a man like Vadim Stravinsky—who exudes power and control with every breath—react so viscerally?

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