Page 20 of Unveiled

“I’m not hungry.”I pick at a slice of plain bread, my appetite gone. I haven’t eaten and need to, but the reality of my situation and the pang of loss hits my belly.

It’s exhausting keeping up with my anger toward him. I’m not an angry person. I rarely lose my temper. My mother used to say I had the longest fuse of anyone she’d ever met, but when someone finally got to the end of it, watch out.

Maybe she was right. I don’t want to think of my mother now because the most painful memories I have of her involve the man—or monster—sitting right across the table from me.

Semyon prides himself on telling the truth, no matter how brutal, but he lied to me outside his home before we came inside. He said he hadn’t changed. That couldn’t be further from the truth.

Because I remember.

I remember lying by the creek, side by side, when we were kids. It was the only time I ever saw him relax, surrounded by the hush of wind in the trees above us, my brother lazily casting his fishing line time and again and never catching a bite. I can still hear the sound of the water trickling and birds singing and fluttering past us.

He says he hasn’t changed, but I know the truth: Semyon was a boy I trusted and grew into a man I hated.

“Eat,” he says, pushing a platter of food toward me. Unsurprisingly, everything in his home is sharp lines and muted tones—steel, glass, and dark, varnished wood. Everything is cold and precise. Immaculate. There isn’t a shred of warmth or personal touch to be seen.

Semyon frowns, considering me. Likely trying to decide whether or not this is a hill to die on. Finally, he shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

He might see this as a silent rebellion against his wealth and control, but I’m tired, and it’s late.

Stefan would have come home from school. He meets me at the bakery and tells me about his day, swinging his legs while sitting on the counter, messily eating whatever treat I let him pick from the day’s seconds. He loves to look over the trays of baked goods and find the ones with imperfections before he stuffs them in his mouth.

I feel a little guilty looking at the lavish display in front of us. The spread is a feast of Russian tradition—bowls of borscht, their rich, ruby tops crested with sour cream,golden pirozhki stuffed with savory fillings, and plates of blini filled with smoked salmon and caviar.

Stefan would whoop with delight at this and eat until he couldn’t stuff another bite in his mouth.

My heart aches.

I look down at my plate, the little appetite I had gone.

Ophelia looked after Stefan today and checked in on the bakery. Galina, our only employee and my mother’s best friend, sells our wares with gusto but doesn’t know how to bake the way I do. She can hold down the business for a day, but I’ll have to come up with a plan to get back.

“I need to work,” I say. “I can’t just sit around looking pretty.”

Semyon shrugs. “You can sit around looking petulant. It’s worked for you so far.”

“Oh fuckoff,” I snap before I can stop myself. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Someone on his staff behind us gasps, and the cold flicker in his eyes tells me I’ve crossed a line.

“Excuse me?”

I open my mouth to respond but don’t know what to say. “I-I didn’t mean that.”

“Did you already forget our conversation outside?”

My cheeks color, and I look away.

“Look at me.”

My eyes fly to his, cold and merciless behind his glasses. I stifle the need to squirm under the heat of his glare.

“I told you if you behaved like a child, I would treat you like one. How might you punish a child who was disrespectful?” He leans forward before taking a sip from his drink. “I’ll tell you what Rafail would’ve done. What hediddo. You know all about Rafail becoming guardian to us, don’t you?”

I nod uncomfortably. “Yes.”

“And do you know how he would’ve responded if any of us disobeyed or disrespected him?”

I swallow hard and shake my head. “No,” I say, shifting in my seat. There’s a prickling awareness in the room now, an invisible weight pressing down as Semyon watches me with his ice-cold eyes.

He leans back in his chair, yet every movement seems calculated. It feels strange looking at him now, like visiting a ghost that’s come to haunt you because I still see him, still hear him, still imagine the boy who was strong and powerful, the one who feared nothing. And in front of me now is a monster. A stranger.

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