Page 11 of Beautifully Damned
I sigh, cuffing the loose end of my sweatpants. Maybe I should go outside. Get some air. Touch some grass before I lose my mind.
The silence in this place is eerie. Not peaceful. Roman hasn’t asked for a ransom, hasn’t negotiated, hasn’t made any demands. Nothing. My father would have offered anything for my release by now. So why am I still here? A message to my father? Hasn’t he sent that already? What’s the endgame?
Before I even process the decision, my feet are moving. Down the stairs. Past the cold, empty hallways. At the front door, I pause. Two guards block the exit, big and brutal in their suits, but one of them has faded swirls of pink and blue on his face. Butterfly wings. Nothing in this place makes sense.
“Hi,” I say softly. “Would it be okay if I sat in the garden? Just for a few minutes?”
They glance at each other. The butterfly-faced one raises a finger, telling me to wait. His thick fingers tap against his phone. It takes barely a second before his phone buzzes, and he lifts his chin toward the garden.
I nod, whispering a grateful “thank you.”
I step outside and the sunlight hits my face like a balm. The grass crunches gently beneath my slippers as I make my way toward the fountain; it’s old and cracked in places, but the water still flows. I sit at its edge, curling my fingers around my knees.
Maybe I’ll pretend I’m somewhere else. Somewhere I don’t have to wonder what a man like Roman Volkov plans to do with someone like me.
Of course, one of the guards follows.
He lingers about ten steps behind. Probably another one of Roman’s little commands: watch the hostage, make sure she doesn’t run off and get eaten by a bear, or God forbid, make a friend.
Not that I could go far. I glance around. The estate is surrounded by miles and miles of manicured greenery that spills into wild, tangled forest. There is nothing but endless trees, whispering secrets I’d never be fast or brave enough to chase.
I smile at the mountain of a man trailing me like a shadow. “You can sit, you know,” I say, gesturing to the stone edge of the fountain beside me. “Or stand there and glower. Up to you.”
His face might as well be carved from rock. The only thing that breaks the intimidation is the faint outlines of butterflies clinging to his cheek.
“You know,” I say, tapping the air near his face, “it’s really hard to look scary with those on.”
His lips don’t even twitch.
I tap my slipper on the ground. “You’re not going to talk? You’re just gonna stand there like a gothic gargoyle?”
He lets out a very low sigh, like dragging sound from the depths of the earth.
“Matvey,” he mutters.
I perk up. “Oh? That’s your name?”
He nods once.
“I like it. Sounds strong. Russian?”
He gives me the faintest raise of a brow. “Obviously.”
Touché. Dumb question. I’m still in shock that this wall of a man is agreeing to engage me in conversation. For a moment, silence ensues. I let it be, not wanting to push too hard. I listen to the birds, the gentle splash of the fountain.
“They were for my daughter’s birthday,” Matvey says suddenly.
I blink, surprised. “The butterflies?”
“She wanted a tea party, and loves butterflies. But they won’t wash off.”
My heart softens instantly. “That’s… sweet. She must really love you.”
He shrugs. I soak the edge of my sleeve in the fountain. “Here,” I say gently. “Let me help.”
He doesn’t stop me when I reach up and gently scrub at the faded marks. It comes natural to me, helping people. It’s what I enjoy most in life. I feel like it slightly amends the sin of being born in this world, and being a silent bystander to violence and injustice.
Five seconds pass.
