Page 43 of Beautiful Forever
The Past
A slow,steady rain starts to fall and pelts the window, creating tiny rivulets that drip down the glass like teardrops. My fingertip follows the haphazard patterns they create as they trickle down the outside of the pane. Chaos theory helps explain why their paths look random and chaotic, when in fact, they’re not. Like everything in life, there are inherent repetitions, patterns, and feedback loops. Everything is interconnected in some way.
Wrapping my arms around myself, I try to chase away the sudden chill, but the cold that has embedded its icy fingers in me goes bone deep. As deep as the betrayal I’m drowning in.
The men I trusted lied to me. Alana lied to me. And my mother…I hate her for what she did. I was her daughter. She was supposed to love and protect me. Instead, I was nothing more than a business transaction. She sold me off just like Francesco sold Alana.
I glance down at the floor where the signed contract with my mother’s elegantly distinctive signature rests at my feet in a crumpled ball, then lift my gaze to find Aleksander in the reflection of the glass, warily watching me from across the room.
“I may have been promised to you, but Iamnotyour wife.”
I never consented. I never said, “I do.” I was nine fucking years old when the contract was signed between my mother and Nikolai Stepanoff.
In the eyes of the Society, it won’t matter. The legalities of things mean little to an organization that thrives on doing whatever the hell it wants with no repercussions.
Was this the betrayal my father spoke about that night?
When Aleksander doesn’t say anything, I cross the living room and take a seat on the coffee table in front of him. I shouldn’t feel an iota of sympathy for this man. He may not have had control over the things that happened when he was younger, but he’s an adult now. Everything he’s done, he did so by choice. Yet, I can’t help but feel sorry for him. In a way, Aleksander and I are very similar.
“Let me take a look.”
Bright crimson blots the white terrycloth he’s holding to his neck.
“I’m good. Just a scratch.”
Just a scratch, my ass. I shove his hand out of the way. The blood hasn’t clotted yet and slowly weeps from the wound.
“Where’s your first aid kit?”
“I’ll get it,” he says and tries to stand, but I none-too-gently push him back down.
“I’ll do it. Just point me the way.”
He motions with a tilt of his head in the direction of the kitchen. “There’s one in the cabinet underneath the sink.”
On my way to the kitchen, I study the layout of the place. Nice, modern décor. Clean. There are maybe two bedroomsdown the hallway that leads from the living room. The kitchen is small and utilitarian. Hendrix would hate it.
I miss them.
For fuck’s sake, stop thinking about them.
Opening the bottom cabinet under the sink, I immediately spot the first aid kit… along with a small revolver duct-taped to the inside of the cabinet door. My fingers itch with temptation when I lightly touch the hilt.
It would be so easy.
Ignoring it, I hastily grab the small plastic box and go back to the living room.
“I hope you’re up to date with your tetanus booster.”
“I am.”
His eyes briefly fall to my right hand when I kneel in front of him and something akin to relief flashes over his face. He knew damn well the gun was there when he told me where the first aid kit was. He was testing me.
“If I was going to kill you, I’d have done it in the alley. No cameras. I don’t play games, Aleksander, so don’t play them with me.”
The side of his mouth curves in a bemused half smile. “Noted.”
I roughly jerk his chin up so I can clean and dress the wound. “Speaking of games, you’re an asshole for leaving those photographs in my journal for me to find.”
