Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
I could feel myself breathing faster and faster. I couldn’t remember ever feeling so vulnerable and exposed, like I’d shattered on the floor and he was about to sift through all my glittering, private workings. I wanted my gun. I wanted this to be something I could fight my way out of.
Fuck it. I pulled off my blouse, then wriggled out of my jeans. Picking a dress at random, I pulled it over my head. Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it. Get it over with. It was blue and probably very stylishly cut, but I didn’t pay any attention: all I knew was that it put my legs on show, up to just above the knee.
I slipped on some heels and grabbed the door handle. And it was only as the door swung wide to reveal Gennadiy that I realized, too late, why I was so upset.
It had been a long time since anyone had seen my leg, but I remembered in perfect, gut-wrenching detail the look of horror and disappointment on a man’s face when he saw. And even though he’d already pushed me away, I couldn’t bear to see that look of disgust on Gennadiy’s face.
I started to swing the door shut again, but Gennadiy frowned and caught it with one huge, powerful hand, thinking I was playing some game. And then his eyes licked hungrily down my body: over the delicate shoulder straps and the tight bodice, down over the flowing skirt, down to—
My soul shrank down to a tiny fetal ball. I summoned up all my layers of armor, but it didn’t matter, he was too close, he was going to see me break, he was going to see that his fearsome opponent was actually pathetically weak. Gennadiy blurred behind sudden, traitorous tears. Goddamnit! I blinked furiously and glared up at him—
He was staring right at the hellish, ruined landscape the Molotov cocktail had left. His eyes tracked all the way down to my ankle, then up towards my face—
My chest closed up. I couldn’t breathe.
He looked me in the eye and...he didn’t look disgusted, or disappointed. He looked angry. I watched his shoulders rise, and his hands curl into darkly tattooed fists.
“Who?” he whispered.
I blinked, thrown. But my chest had eased enough for me to speak. “The Torrisis. A long time ago. Mistaken identity.”
He closed his eyes, his face twisted in pain. Then he nodded. “Come on.”
I stared up at him in dismay. “I can’t go out like this! I’m—” I looked down at my leg. Hideous.
He turned away for a second. I heard him huff his breath out angrily, as if he was fighting with himself. Then he turned back to me, took hold of my chin, and lifted it, making me look at him. The scowling mask was gone: for a second, he was open, exposed. “Alison...you’re beautiful. Scars don’t make you less, they make you more because something happened to you, something bad enough to hurt you...but you were strong enough to stay a good person. The ugly ones…they’re the ones who get twisted and scarred inside. What happened to them made them monsters, and you wouldn’t even know it to look at them.”
It felt like something enormous was lifting from my chest. I gave a quick little nod, unable to speak. A single tear broke free and trickled down my cheek, and I saw his eyes follow it down. His hand tensed on my chin. His eyes flicked to my lips—
And then he turned and stalked away. “Come on,” he said tightly. “We’ll be late.”
I stood frozen for a second. Beautiful. The word melted into my mind, and icy, Russian-accented rivulets of water ran deep, finding the little girl who hadn’t felt beautiful in twenty years, and I had to bite my lip hard. And then they found adult me: obsessive, flat-chested, man-scaring me, and my breath went shaky.
Gennadiy was already halfway down the stairs. I ran to catch up. He thinks I’m beautiful. But for some reason, he kept pulling away.
We crossed the immense hallway, passing beneath a servant dusting the chandelier. I reran his words in my head. He was talking about himself. He thinks he’s a monster. A deep swell of sympathy rolled through me. Then I caught myself. What’s the matter with me? He was a monster. I’d known that from the start. So why did hearing him say it feel so wrong? Because something happened to make him like this? Because he didn’t want to be like this?
Outside, we climbed into Gennadiy’s BMW. He gave the steering wheel an affectionate stroke as he started the engine. Meanwhile, I glanced around, frowning. I’d spent months following this car, knew every inch of the exterior. Being inside felt weird, like walking onto the set of your favorite TV show.