Page 263 of Jaded Soul (Kovalyov Bratva 3)

Saoirse

I feel like an intruder. A dirty little nobody who’s been dropped into the lap of luxury.

I can feel the walls staring at me, judging me, accusing me.

You don’t belong here.

We can smell it on you, wafting out of your pores.

Sweat. Poverty. Pain.

The stink of the working class.

I did think about sticking to my room, but an hour on my own disabused me of that plan.

I’ve spent my entire life trapped. For as long as this bizarre fever dream lasts, I might as well explore.

I start with the floor I’m on.

The house is luxe and modern. But sporadic elements scattered throughout help temper the cold austereness of the sea of glass and granite.

The wooden floors stretch endlessly in every direction, gleaming under the light of chandeliers suspended from the barn beam rafters high above. Lush Turkish carpets soften the severity and add washes of color here and there.

The walls are adorned with violently spiky, abstract paintings. The kind that scream, “This is expensive,” with the ornate frames to match.

I wander among everything slowly, taking it all in. It’s a far cry from the garbage heap I grew up in.

I dip in and out of the rooms. Libraries, studies—even a fucking aquarium, to my surprise. I’m mostly content to just look a little and then keep moving.

But one of the rooms draws my attention.

It’s a broad, circular space centered around a huge grand piano. I pause in the doorway and look at it reverently.

When I was eight, I’d desperately wanted to learn how to play. But of course, there wasn’t enough money for classes.

“Piano?” Pa had repeated incredulously when I’d asked. “What use would that be to you? It’s a waste of time and money. A useless skill for the rich.”

“I could make music, Pa,” I’d replied. Like that was something worthwhile. Something precious.

“Making money is more useful, Saoirse,” Pa had responded. “Learn how to do that instead.”

And that was the end of it.

I slink over to the instrument now and sink down carefully, like I’m afraid that if I plop down too hard the piano will recognize I’m just some sad little peasant who doesn’t belong here and tip me over onto my ass.

I touch a key with one finger. Plink. Soft. Solemn. Melodic.

The room echoes beautifully, and I have a sneaking suspicion it was designed with acoustics in mind.

The windows beyond look out over the lake. Now that I think about it, the whole house looks out over the lake, actually. It’s wrapped around the water, nestled on the shores so that the light bouncing into each room shimmers and shifts with the tides.

I can’t even imagine living in a place like this. Somehow, it feels like I’d have been a much different person if I did.

I touch the key again softly. Plink.

Then, with a shudder I don’t quite understand, I push back from the instrument and get ready to leave.

Suddenly, I notice a tall figure lounging against the doorframe.

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