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ELEVEN: The Prize of a Lie
Veröffentlichungsdatum:
15.04.2025 07:11:28
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Her Neglected Scars FIFTY-TWO: Where Am I?
I don’t think twice about it, adjusting my grip on the reins.“Race you to the other side of the forest! Last one there has to eat Leonid’s leftover vegetables!” Leonid yells, already scrambling onto his pony with the practiced ease of a kid who grew up in the saddle.He digs his small boots into the pony’s sides, and the animal bolts toward the tree line, leaving a cloud of dust behind.“Leonid, wait!” I call out, but he’s already a streak of brown against the green.I look at the grey mare, then up at the high stirrup.My back flares with a sharp, blinding heat as I try to lift my leg to reach the stirrup.The whip wounds from last night stretch to their absolute limit, threatening to rip open right through my clothes.I freeze, a small, involuntary gasp catching in my throat.Before I can figure out how to climb up without pulling my flesh apart, two massive hands clamp firmly around my waist.Konstantin stands right behind me. His grip is ironclad, lifting my entire weight off the
Her Neglected Scars FIFTY-ONE: Goodluck
I don’t pull my hands away from the stallion’s neck, mostly because my fingers are locked into the coarse, black hair, and partly because if I move, the stretched skin across my shoulder blades will tear open completely.The dry blood from last night’s welts feels like tight papier-mâché against my spine, ready to crack at the slightest sudden shift.So, I stay exactly where I am, plastered against a beast that could crush my chest with a single kick, looking back at my husband.Konstantin steps into the stall with the unbothered grace of a man who owns every square inch of earth he steps on.The charcoal wool of his suit jacket shifts over his broad shoulders.He stops just inches away, the scent of expensive cedarwood cologne mixed with the sharp, earthy tang of the stables hitting my nose.“You’re never this obedient to anyone else, are you, Z’ver?” Konstantin murmurs, his eyes never leaving mine.His deep voice vibrates in the small space, low and rough, sending a sudden spike of
Her Neglected Scars FIFTY: Nickname
I know what it’s like to be trapped in a cage, hurting so badly you want to scream, while everyone looks at you and only sees a weapon.I take a slow breath, expanding my lungs carefully to minimize the sting in my back, and walk toward the reinforced steel gates of the corner stall.The stallion’s ears twitch instantly.He lifts his head, his wild eyes locking onto me as he lets out a defensive, raspy snort, his muscles tensing as if he’s preparing to charge the bars.“Easy,” I whisper, my voice dropping into a soft, melodic purr.I don’t stop walking, but I move with complete, fluid grace, keeping my hands low and visible.“Easy, boy. I’m not going to hurt you. Look at me. I’m tiny. You could crush me with one hoof if you wanted to.”I reach the gate and slowly slide the heavy iron bolt open.The metal screeches softly, and the stallion takes a sharp step back, baring his teeth.My heart is beating so loud I can hear it in my ears, but I force myself to step inside the stall, closin
Her Neglected Scars FORTY-NINE: Z'ver, The Horse
I push the double doors open silently, my fingers gripping the cold brass handle until my knuckles turn white.The heavy wool of my high-collared riding habit chafes mercilessly against the raw, sticky grid of whip wounds on my back, each micro-movement sending a sharp, nauseating sting straight up my spine.But the physical agony vanishes from my mind the second I look across the grand living room.Leonid is standing near the massive stone fireplace, his tiny six-year-old face flushed a bright, furious red, his small fists clenched so tightly at his sides that his arms are visibly shaking.The air in the room is suffocating, thick with the scent of burning pine from the hearth and the cloying, expensive rose perfume that can only belong to one person.Irina is sitting gracefully on the plush velvet sofa, a picture-perfect portrait of elegant, tragic concern.“What’s going on in here?” I ask, forcing my voice into a smooth, even register that betrays absolutely none of the internal ha
Her Neglected Scars FORTY-EIGHT: Horseback or Torture?
The leather uncoils with a wet, heavy slap against the hardwood, and the sound alone is enough to violently jerk me out of the warm, lingering haze of the billiards room. “Crack the door, let a single sound out, and we see how the great Russian bear likes finding out his precious little bird is a Bennington rat.”My stomach drops into a bottomless, icy void. The sheer terror isn’t just for the pain I know is coming; it’s the sudden, agonizing realization of how easily I let myself forget. I actually let myself believe, even for a handful of seconds, that a game of pool and a low, gravelly nickname could buy me safety. I am so pathetic. I mock myself silently as I move toward the bathroom, my limbs heavy and clumsy with dread. I reach for the white cotton hand towel hanging over the porcelain basin. It feels rough against my palms, dry and ordinary, a stark contrast to the violence about to unfold. I fold it twice, shove it between my teeth, and bite down until my jaw aches. The
Her Neglected Scars FORTY-SEVEN: From Cues to Whips
The green felt table sits between us like a battlefield. Konstantin walks over to the wooden rack on the wall, his broad shoulders shifting beneath his black shirt. He slides a heavy wooden cue from the mount, weighs it in his hand, and then pulls out a second one. He walks over to me, extending the handle. “Do you actually know how to play,” he says, “or were you performing for the child?”I take the cue. “I know a bit.”“How much is a bit.”“Enough to embarrass myself comfortably.”His mouth moves. Not a smile. Adjacent to one.My mind flashes back to the smoky underground lounges in London, the high-stakes clubs in Mayfair, the different wealthy businessmen my father had ordered me to charm, to manipulate, to bleed for information. I had to learn everything they liked—poker, baccarat, golf, billiards. I had to be the perfect companion, the flawless mirror to their desires. But billiards was never my strongest suit; I was always better at watching the marks than hitting the ba
Her Neglected Scars THIRTY-SEVEN: Ugly Caricatures
The fireworks are still cracking in the sky behind me, but the world’s gone dim.It’s as someone shoved me out of the spotlight mid-scene. And handed Irene the mic.She stumbles closer, all dainty steps and calculated breathlessness, clutching her phone like it’s her grandma’s ashes.“I was feeling
Her Neglected Scars THIRTY-SIX: Carnival Rides
The car ride feels like getting shoved between a live wire and a ticking time bomb. Leonid’s on my left, fidgeting like he’s got caffeine for blood.Konstantin’s on my right, legs spread, arms crossed, brooding like he’s plotting world domination—or someone’s death. Probably mine.I reach for the w
Her Neglected Scars THIRTY-FOUR: Trio Date?
The lounge smells like chlorine and sugar. Leonid’s curled up on the far end of the long cream couch, his stupid tablet on his lap, and for once, he’s not scowling at me like I just kicked his puppy. I sit on the opposite end, legs tucked under me, a little awkward.The sun from the giant glass doo
Her Neglected Scars THIRTY-TWO: The Truth
The hallway’s silent when I pass through it. Not that it’s unusual—this place is built like a fucking mausoleum, all polished floors and pristine chandeliers, so quiet you can hear your own regrets echo off the goddamn marble.I don’t bother going back to the office tonight. Carlos didn’t say anyth
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