Page 41 of Scarred (Russian Sinners 2)

Olivia’s words echoed in my mind warning me there would be always something pressing keeping me away from my family. She was right. I wanted to see Tasha grow. I wanted a family and woman in my bed every night. That woman was Olivia; I knew it as certain as I knew my name.

Chapter Fourteen

Olivia

Ilaid in bed, and although I was tired, sleep wouldn’t find me. Worries about Anastasia swarmed my mind. It made me want to check my phone for new messages every five minutes, which was ridiculous. But I still did it. And then I would refresh and refresh my connection, just in case maybe it hadn’t downloaded yet.

I was even tempted to send a message to Nikolai, since he was so nice to leave his phone number in my contacts, to ask for any updates. Each time I got up the nerve and started typing, I ended up deleting it and shutting the phone down. He said he would let me know of any changes.

He also told me he wanted me.

When you submit to me, it will be because you agree to it and want it as much as I do.

Malcome insisted I submit to him and endure his sick ways.

Was Nikolai the same? No, he wasn’t. There was no need to even wonder about it. But with every thought of being restrained and having to submit, memories of my time with Malcome haunted me. And at the same time, thoughts of Nikolai made my body hum with a current of excitement. That alone told me I was crazy.

I firmly pushed any ideas of submission out of my mind and stared at the dark ceiling. I was desperate for sleep to swallow me.

But the memory of the last time Malcome touched me kept creeping back to the forefront of my mind. I didn’t want to remember it. I didn’t want to think about it. But that last dinner we had together before I left for Europe slithered in, consuming me.

I hadn’t wanted to come to dinner. My father forced my hand. He’d sold me out because he couldn’t keep his ass out of the casino and his hands off mine and Oliver’s inheritance. All of it was gone, lost to blackjack tables and roulette. Then he made the mistake of embezzling money. Can you believe it? A Supreme Court judge caught with his hand in the cookie jar. The only reason he was yet to be rotting behind bars was because Malcome Schmidt covered his ass, and all it cost my father was me.

Dinner was at Malcome’s place, just the two of us. Normally, when I’d come it was under the guise of some pompous get together, the place was open and airy… decorated for the audience invited. But without the pretense, I sat in a darkened dining room, the curtains drawn and an overly dramatic, Victorian gothic candelabra providing the flickering candlelight by which we dined. I never cared much for horror movies but I swore the environment and ambiance was plucked out of a horror movie: eerie, dark, and creepy. And the silence that encased the room only added to the effect. Only the slight screech of the knife cutting against the ceramic plates sounded around us, and even then, it was like nails on a chalkboard, causing me to cringe with each scrape.

The entire dinner I pretended to eat, shuffling my food around my plate. Every so often, I brought a small piece of dry chicken to my mouth, but each time I swallowed, it raked down my throat, rubbing it raw. I couldn’t taste it, smell it… nothing. I might as well be eating a piece of chalk.

“Is the food not to your liking?” Malcome’s nasally voice was anything but attractive. And the way he ate and licked his lips made me sick to my stomach. Even if I was hungry and relaxed, I would have lost my appetite just from the sight of him.

“It’s delicious,” I muttered softly. The room was enveloped in almost deadly silence. It wouldn’t have mattered if I whispered under my breath, he was sure to hear it.

His smile was something between a grimace and vile smirk, as if everything he’d done tonight was done with the purpose of adding to my torture of having to be here. But then again, I didn’t realize he’d barely begun his game.

I politely refused dessert, ready to depart his home that was more fitting for the cursed Halloween haunted house scene.

“I need to discuss the terms of our marriage,” he stopped me from leaving.

“I thought you and my father already did that, Mr. Schmidt,” I replied calmly, although my heart beat wildly. Every fiber of my being was screaming for me to run, to get free of the man before me.

“I told you to call me Malcome. I hate repeating myself,” his voice was close behind me, his breath on my neck, sending shudders of disgust through me. “And this only concerns our relationship. Let’s go into my office.”

I didn’t want to go. God, I really didn’t want to go.

As I followed him down the hall, each step I took was heavy as a lead. Each time I’ve had to come to this house, I’ve only suffered the demoralizing feeling of having to submit to this man in one way or another. Tied up, strip down, and whipped. Forced to endure him finger fucking me while he choked me. Having him ejaculate on me as he marked me with the tip of a knife and I cried in agony. But the scars… they were always hidden. He was careful when he tortured me, careful that no marks marred my visible flesh.

Each episode took weeks for me to get over. Having to learn to push the memories back to the furthest recesses of my mind. I was thankful for Anastasia and Scarlett; both were always there to pull me free when the memories threatened to drown me.

He opened his office door and waited for me to enter ahead of him. My step faltered, it was for a fraction of the second, but he saw it.

I should have run. I should have said to hell with my father, let him drown, and run. But I didn’t. I knew better, because I knew my sadistic, asshole father had a backup plan in the event I decided to jump ship… that backup plan was my mother. And I refused to have him break her down any further than he already had. I’d watched her go from a vibrant woman to a shell of her former self because of my father, and I refused to watch her decline any further.

I entered his office with my head held high, and he followed behind me shutting the door. I heard the lock click and every fiber of my being screamed. But I stood there, motionless.

“Now, Olivia,” he started in a creepy tone. “You will take your skirt and panties off.”

At his command, I pushed my feelings down, allowing the numbness to overtake me. It was something that I had started to become good at. Turning off my feelings and finding a memory or something in the room to focus on had been my saving grace in a few situations, but even still, there were times he broke through those defenses, reducing me to a screaming, fearful mess.

I stood there in my white blouse, black heels, and nothing else.

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