Todos os capítulos de Her Neglected Scars: Capítulo 71 - Capítulo 80

My eyes snap open to the bitter taste of medical sedatives on the back of my tongue.The heavy velvet curtains are drawn tight, but the raised voices bleeding through the mahogany door vibrate right through the floorboards.I swing my legs over the side of the bed.Cold air hits my bare ankles, sending a shiver up my spine.My ribs ache from yesterday’s assault, but I push through it, planting my feet on the rug and creeping toward the doorway.“You’re out of your fucking mind, Konstantin!” Irina’s voice screeches through the hallway, stripped of her usual delicate polish. “You threw Sofia out like garbage! She’s a Bennington servant! Do you have any idea what Theodore will do when he finds out you expelled his daughter’s personal maid? You’re begging for an international bloody war!”“The Benningtons made an enemy of the Morozov syndicate the moment Theodore put his fucking boots on Russian soil,” Konstantin’s voice responds,. “We don’t answer to London, Irina. Sofia is off my esta

I shove the black leather diary beneath the stack of loose stationery on my nightstand, my fingers trembling so hard the fountain pen rolls off the wood and clatters onto the floor.Seven days.That is all the time my father gave me before he cuts my mother’s throat.I collapse onto the edge of the mattress, pulling the duvet over my shoulders.My body aches from the inside out, every old scar on my back throbbing with a dull, familiar heat.I shut my eyes, praying for a few hours of dark, merciful oblivion.A sharp, dragging rasp wakes me.My eyes snap open into the pitch-black bedroom.My heart hammers against my ribs.I sit up slowly, holding my breath until my lungs burn.The noise comes again—a faint, metallic scrape from inside the adjoining bathroom.I slide my legs out of bed.The ice-cold marble floor bites into my bare feet.I tiptoe toward the half-open bathroom door, every muscle coiled tight.The air smells of damp tile and night frost.Up near the ceiling, the small rect

KONSTANTIN3 Days Ago* * * The heavy silver breakfast tray feels ridiculous in my hands, but I take it from the young maid anyway.“Mr. Morozov, I can carry that up for Mistress Evangeline—““I’ve got it,” I cut her off, my voice flat. “Get back to the kitchen.”She nods quickly and backs away, smoothing her apron before disappearing down the stone corridor.I shift my grip on the polished handles, turning toward the east wing.The morning air inside the manor is damp and freezing, smelling faintly of pine soot and wet concrete from the courtyard outside.When I reach Evangeline’s bedroom, I don’t see her.I see six-year-old Leonid standing on his tiptoes in front of her door, his small fingers straining to reach the heavy brass latch.He’s wearing his oversized flannel pajamas, his dark hair sticking up on one side, clearly trying to sneak in to bug her for breakfast.“Leonid.”The kid jumps half an inch off the floor, gasping as he spins around.In his sudden panic, his small hand

EVANGELINEThe heat hits before the sound does.W-what’s happening?It creeps down through the cracks in the ceiling, thick and heavy, reeking of scorched oil and pine wood.My lungs burn on the first inhale, coughing so hard my torn back muscles scream against the soaked bandages.Smoke pours down the stone stairs in rolling grey clouds.Fire. There’s a fire somewhere. Shit.“Konstantin!” I scream again, my voice tearing down the middle. “I’m down here! Konstantin!”Nothing comes back.No heavy boots on the stairs. No orders barked in Russian.Just the violent crackle of wood collapsing on the floor above me.The guards are gone. Sofia is gone.And if I stay chained to these concrete iron rings for another three minutes, I’m going to bake alive.I pull against the right cuff.The iron edge bites deep into my wrist, gouging through skin down to the tendon.Pain flares white across my eyes, but I don’t stop.I jam my right thumb inward, forcing the joint down until the bone pops out of

I turn the brass knob on the sink and splash icy water onto my face.The shock cuts through the fog in my head.I wipe my wet skin with the sleeve of my wool sweater, staring at my bloody knuckles in the mirror before I turn the latch and step back out.Miranda is sitting on the edge of the sofa, swinging her bare legs like a child.Babushka Elena hands me a basin of warm water and a clean washcloth.“She needs a sponge bath,” the old woman whispers. “I’ll fetch clean clothes.”I take the cloth, dipping it into the warm water, and kneel in front of my mother.I scrub the black soot off her cheeks, wiping down her frail shoulders while she picks at a loose thread on her sleeve.Pyotr sits by the wood stove, cleaning his pipe with a pocketknife.“Do you have a phone?” I ask, my voice gravelly. “A landline? Anything?”Pyotr shakes his head, sliding his knife back into his pocket. “No wires up these mountains, girl. No cell tower signal either. Rain cuts out the old radio half the time.”