17. The Taste of RebellionMila
Seventeen
The Taste of Rebellion
Mila
T he campus air feels cooler than I expect, and a shiver runs down my spine. I step out of the car, the heels of my boots clicking against the pavement. “Thank you, Anatoly,” I say. He nods before driving off to search for parking.
I square my shoulders, clutching my coat tighter as I approach the lecture hall. The hum of quiet chatter from the other attendees fills the air, but I barely register it. My focus is on the door ahead.
It’s been years since I allowed myself this. Physics is my passion, my escape. I gave it up because of him, because my father deemed it impractical, unbecoming. He always had a way of crushing the things I loved.
I slip into a seat near the back, the professor already mid-talk, the ordeal made me late. The professor explains wave functions and probabilities, how particles exist in a state of possibility until observed. It’s strange how something so abstract, so theoretical, can feel so grounding.
My father would sneer at this. “You’re wasting time, Mila,” he’d say. “This isn’t who you are.” But he never knew who I was. He never wanted to.
I clench my fists in my lap. The hate I feel for him is a burning, choking thing. It’s new, still unfamiliar, but it’s there. I never thought I could hate him, not truly.
He turned me into a murderer when I was just nine years old. I don’t even remember the faces of the people I killed or the sound of their voices.
I shove the thought aside, focusing on the professor’s voice. He’s moved on to quantum entanglement, describing how particles remain inexplicably connected across unimaginable distances.
A tear escapes down my cheek before I can stop it, and I swipe it away, forcing myself to stay present.
A part of me whispers that Rafael’s anger is justified. That he has every right to despise me. But another part—small and fragile—pushes back. I was a child. A scared, helpless child.
Maybe believing that delusion is the only way I can live with myself.
I straighten in my seat, ignoring everything for just a moment. For once, I’m doing something for me. Just me.
The lecture ends too quickly, the professor’s voice giving way to applause. I sit there for a moment, reluctant to leave.
It’s only when I glance toward the back of the room that my stomach tightens. Anatoly. He’s standing there, leaning casually against the wall, but his gaze is fixed on me. Watching.
I’m always watched. It’s a constant in my life, suffocating and inescapable. I’ve never known what it’s like to just be .
I stand, smoothing down the front of my coat, and make my way to the exit. Outside the lecture hall, a small table is set up with snacks and drinks. My head feels light, and I pause, scanning the spread. A small chocolate bar catches my eye. I pick it up, unwrapping it as I lean against the table.
“I noticed.” a voice says, pulling my attention.
The professor from earlier is standing there, sliding a slice of cheesecake onto his plate. Up close, he looks older, maybe mid-40s, with faint lines around his eyes that only make him more attractive. His dark hair is neatly combed, his jaw sharp and clean-shaven. He’s handsome in a composed, self-assured way that’s rare.
My brows furrow at his words. “Excuse me?”
“That tear,” he says, gesturing vaguely as he adjusts his plate. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen physics move someone to tears.”
I blink, then laugh lightly. “Oh, no, that wasn’t—” I cut myself off. I can’t tell him I was crying at my life. “I just really love physics,” I finish lamely, the corner of my mouth quirking upward.
“Clearly,” he says, his tone teasing but kind. “It’s refreshing. Most people don’t think beyond the equations on the board. It’s rare to see someone feel it.”
“Well,” I reply, glancing at the half-unwrapped chocolate in my hand, “it’s… always been a passion of mine. I just haven’t had much time for it lately.”
“That’s a shame,” he says. “The world needs more people with passion for the subject.”
I shrug, feeling oddly seen under his gaze. “Life gets in the way, I guess.”
“Doesn’t it always?” He smiles, then sets his plate down and pulls a card from his pocket. “Here.”
I hesitate before taking it, the smooth cardstock cool between my fingers. His name and contact information are printed in neat, minimalist lettering.
“If you ever have questions about anything—physics or otherwise—don’t hesitate to reach out.”
“Thank you.”
“May I?” he asks, gesturing toward my phone.
It takes a moment for me to realize what he’s asking. I hand it to him, and he punches in his number before pressing something. His phone rings in his pocket, he has my number now. Smart.
“There,” he says, handing my phone back. “Now you can’t lose it.”
I tuck the card into my coat pocket, feeling a faint smile tug at my lips. “Thanks… um—”
“Elliot,” he supplies, extending a hand.
“Mila,” I reply, shaking it briefly.
“Nice to meet you, Mila,” he says. Then he picks up his plate, nods once, and disappears into the crowd.
I watch him go. It’s not often someone speaks to me like that—unguarded, as if I’m just another person in the room. For a fleeting moment, I feel almost… ordinary. I like it.
The deep rumble of Anatoly’s voice behind me startles me, making me jump.
“Rafael won’t like this,” he says.
I don’t bother turning around. “I don’t care,” I reply. My hands slide into my pockets, seeking warmth.
We walk in silence toward the car, my boots crunching against the gravel, his heavier steps following just behind. The quiet stretches until he speaks again.
“You know he’ll burn the world down if you actually call him.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “He should focus on his future wife,” I say, my tone clipped. “I’m just his sister-in-law. He shouldn’t care what I do.”
A low growl rumbles from him, sharp and animalistic, and I stop abruptly, spinning to face him.
“So sensitive when Layla comes up, are we?” I taunt, raising a brow.
“It’s nothing like that,” he snaps, his gaze shifting to the side.
“It better not be,” I warn. “She’s marrying the Pakhan. He’ll hang you by your balls if he even suspects anything.”
He curses under his breath, “ k chertu eto.”
I sigh, shaking my head as I turn back toward the car. I slide into the passenger seat, my fingers trembling just slightly as they brush over the smooth card in my pocket. Anatoly gets in beside me, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles pale as he starts the engine.
I lean my head against the cool glass of the car window. My thoughts are loud, but the streets outside are louder. Then I see it—a hair salon tucked between a bakery and a bookstore. The fluorescent sign flickers, almost like it’s calling to me.
“Stop the car,” I say suddenly, sitting upright.
“What?”
“I said stop,” I repeat firmly. “Pull over.”
He mutters something under his breath, but he obeys, steering the car to the curb. I push the door open before he’s even fully stopped.
The bell above the door jingles as I step inside. The air smells faintly of chemicals and shampoo. A young woman behind the counter looks up, surprised.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“Do you have room for a walk-in?”
She glances around the salon, her eyes landing on an empty chair near the back. “I think we can fit you in. What are you looking to do?”
I don’t hesitate. “I want to chop it off. To my shoulders.”
Her eyes widen slightly, darting to my long hair, then back to my face. “Are you sure? You have beautiful hair—”
“I’m sure,” I cut her off.
She nods and motions for me to follow her to the chair. Maybe this is what I need, a small rebellion to remind myself I’m still alive.
The hairdresser hesitates before gathering my hair into a long ponytail. “We do donations, if you’re interested,” she hums.
“Donations?”
“Yes, for people going through treatments—cancer, alopecia, things like that.”
I nod slowly. “Then donate it.”
Even if I spent the rest of my life giving, it wouldn’t erase the blood on my hands. She smiles before cutting my hair. I’m breaking one of my father’s rules again. He’s going to be livid.
Good. Let him.
When she’s done, she hands me a mirror, showing me the blunt cut resting just above my shoulders. I love it, it suits my face.
“Are you happy with it?” she asks carefully.
“It’s great.”
I pay in cash, sliding a generous tip across the counter. Her eyes widen at the amount, but she doesn’t comment. As I step back outside, the cold air bites at my neck, unprotected now.
Anatoly doesn’t say a word at my new look, just opens the door for me. I slide into the seat, folding my arms tightly across my chest.
He drives, and we arrive, I have no idea what awaits me. Just as my knuckles hover to knock, the door swings open.
My father’s face contorts as his gaze sweeps over me, stopping at my hair. Disgust drips from his voice as he snarls, “What is this?”
Before I can respond, his hand shoots out, grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking me inside.
“Oh no,” he mocks, dragging me through the entryway. “My little girl thinks she can rebel now, does she?”
“Let me go!” I scream, clawing at his hand. “Let me the fuck go!”
His grip tightens, and he laughs coldly. “Cursing too? You really have no shame.”
He drags me to the bathroom, ignoring my thrashing. I hate the way he stays calm, as though my resistance is nothing but an inconvenience to him.
“Stick out your tongue,” he commands.
I shake my head violently, pressing my lips together. He slams me against the sink, his body pinning me down. The weight of him makes my stomach churn, he’s way too close.
“You’ll do as I say,” he growls, pulling a bar of soap from the counter.
“No! No!” I yell, thrashing harder, but his grip is ironclad.
He forces the bar into my mouth, his hand cupping my jaw to keep it there. The taste is vile, burning my tongue and throat as I gag against it.
“This,” he murmurs, his free hand caressing my hair, “is why I need to put you back in your place, sweet girl. You cut your hair. You cursed. You thought you could break the rules. Even though you’re my favorite, this is unacceptable.”
I gag harder, tears streaming down my face as I try to push him off, but he’s immovable.
“I’ve been too easy on you,” he mumbles, almost to himself.
And then a voice cuts through the room like a blade.
“Get your fucking hands off her.”
My father freezes for a split second before straightening. Rafael stands in the doorway, his frame taking up nearly the entire space, Layla and Anatoly right behind him. His eyes are black with fury, his jaw tight.
“Anatoly,” Rafael says coldly, his gaze never leaving my father. “Take Layla out of here. Now.”
Layla lunges forward, screaming, “Let her go! Let her go, you pig!” Anatoly grabs her, hauling her back as she struggles against him.
This is humiliating. My pride hurts more than my scalp. I want to die.
“Rafael!” my father snaps. “Don’t you dare interfere. This is a father disciplining his child.”
But Rafael steps closer, slowly, methodically. His movements are deliberate, terrifying in their calmness.
“She isn’t a child, and she sure isn’t yours to discipline.” Rafael’s voice is deadly.
“Stop!” my father interrupts, his confidence faltering as Rafael looms over him. “You don’t have a say in how I raise my daughter!”
Rafael doesn’t respond with words. He moves, fast, brutal, his fist connecting with my father’s face with a sickening crunch. My father stumbles back, but Rafael doesn’t stop. He punches him again, again, again.
Father falls to the floor, gasping, blood dripping from his nose, his lips. “Stop!” he croaks, looking to his guards for help.
But they don’t move.
Rafael glances at them, a cruel smile tugging at his lips. “They’re under my command, Milos. They won’t lift a finger for you. You sure are a stingy motherfucker—threw a few extra bucks their way, and suddenly, they don’t even remember your name.”
Father’s eyes widen, and he tries to crawl away, but Rafael grabs his wrist, forcing his arm out. He pulls out his gun, pressing it to his hand, the one he used to drag me, and fires.
The crack of the shot echoes through the bathroom, and father screams, clutching his hand as blood pools beneath him.
Rafael crouches beside him, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look up. “I’m keeping you alive for now,” he growls. “Because there’s more to come. But if you so much as touch a single hair on her head again, I’ll kill you. And trust me, it won’t be quick.”
I try to stand, to act like nothing’s wrong. My knees buckle, but I force myself upright. I won’t let Rafael see me like this, won’t let him think I’m weak. But he doesn’t give me the chance. He’s on me in an instant, his arms locking around me before I can take another shaky step.
“Let me go,” I snap. I claw at his chest, but it’s like fighting a wall.
He carries me out of the bathroom like I weigh nothing, his grip firm but careful, as though I might break.
“Rafael,” I hiss, struggling harder. “Put me down!”
He doesn’t. He doesn’t even look at me. He moves through the halls with a calm that makes me want to scream, as if he didn’t witness the most embarrassing moment of my life.
We end up in another bathroom and he sets me down on the counter. His hands are already moving, turning on the faucet, grabbing a glass.
“Open your mouth,” he orders.
“No,” I whisper, turning my head away.
He grips my chin, not hard but firm enough to remind me who’s in control, and tilts my face toward him. His thumb brushes my jaw as he presses the glass to my lips.
“Drink,” he says, softer now.
I have no fight left. The water floods my mouth, washing away the lingering taste of soap and bile. I gag but swallow.
When he pulls the glass away, his eyes narrow, scanning me like he’s trying to memorize every detail. His gaze stops at my collarbone, and his jaw tightens.
“You’re bleeding,” he says, his voice suddenly ice.
I look down, noticing for the first time the scratch cutting across my skin, just below the neckline of my top.
“It’s nothing,” I murmur, trying to brush it off.
But he’s already moving. He grabs a handful of tissues, wets them under the faucet, and steps closer.
“Rafael, stop—” I start, but the words die in my throat as he pulls the neckline of my top down just enough to expose the wound.
He dabs at the blood, ignoring the swell of my chest. The cool water stings, but it’s nothing compared to the shame curling in my stomach.
I stare straight ahead, refusing to meet his eyes.
When he’s done, he steps back, tossing the tissues into the sink. His hands linger at his sides for a moment before he speaks.
“I hope you know,” he says, his voice like a dark promise, “this is the last time he will hurt you.”
I finally look at him, my breath catching at the intensity in his eyes.
“Because if he does,” he continues, his tone lethal, “I will gift you both his hands, Kroshka .”