Dangerous Beginnings (The Beginnings Duet #1)

Sinner

Chapter 30

Sinner

Isabella

I have committed a cardinal sin.

His cologne lingers on my bed sheets, but he isn’t there. It’s the next morning and after last night the wine pulled me into a big slumber. I just now woke up; the kitchen is cleaned, and the apartment looks fresh. He cleaned my place before he made his way out.

I don’t know what to feel. Guilty, shameful, scared, or good. I have never been touched by a man. And for my first man to be touching me I had to choose him . Of course. I stare at my panties on the floor beside my bed. Something in my stomach crawls. I close my eyes as I rethink last night. My cheeks are staining red at the thought. What was I thinking? I even gave him my fucking permission. He asked for it and I gave it. I mentally slap myself in the face.

I rub my hands over my face in frustration. What the hell now? I just go to work and casually pretend like nothing is wrong and all while I’m going to have to cover for him? What does he even mean by that? Is he just using me and getting rid of me later once he gets what he needs? Multiple questions fill my head and they make me anxious. They make me regret my actions. But when I think back about last night my stomach fills again, and I cannot deny, I felt good.

Staring at myself in the mirror I gape at my neck, a big bruise formed its way around my neck. Looking at it I imagine his hand there, like last night. Pressing against my raw skin, as his inked hands kept me in place. Fuck, I am going to need to wear a turtleneck.

I take a hot shower, washing my sins away. After the shower, I put on a skinny, black turtleneck and black high heels. Staring at myself in the mirror I decide I need some concealer and mascara.

Brushing my hair and adding perfume, ready. Hoping the perfume overpowers his scent. I brace myself while looking in the mirror. I have invited him in, myself. I don’t know yet what that means but I’m afraid it won’t take long for me to be met with him yet again.

But this time it’s completely different. It’s more intimidating, more personal, and more complicated. I sigh as I grab my keys while throwing my bag over my shoulder. I stare at the door; I don’t need to lock it for him. He’ll let himself in any way.

Aslanov

I should have distanced myself from her. I should have never agreed to touch her. Her sweet scent still sits in my fucking fingers.

She has invited me in, she has stepped into the ring with a man she doesn’t even know. With a monster. Yet, she let me touch her. Not only that, but she also kneels at my feet. And even though she is kneeling at my feet—she controls me just as much. I have crossed my boundaries for her and have broken two of my rules for her. One: doesn’t show empathy and feelings, two: do not forgive. I don’t pleasure women. I only pleasure myself, yet I only pleasured her last night. And it awoke a feeling inside of me.

Will she become the first person that I will grant my forgiveness?

My usual stoicism begins to crack, giving way to an unsettling undercurrent of anger. I’m accustomed to a life devoid of emotional attachments, a carefully crafted existence where love is an alien concept and caring for others is a luxury I cannot afford. The anger within me simmers, a result of my vulnerability. I resent the fact that she’s managed to breach my well-guarded fortress, unraveling the layers of detachment I meticulously maintained. The anger isn’t directed at her, but at the unfamiliar emotions I find stirring within me. And with one swift motion, I swipe everything from the bar I am sitting at. My hand is covered in glass and blood.

Every interaction with her peels away another layer of my self-imposed indifference, and this gradual unveiling sparks frustration. I need to make up my mind about what to do with her. Whether that is to get rid of her for good, leave her alone, or take her in .

I am needed back in Moscow; my men need me and I have been gone far too long. There are meetings and business to be made. The Russian mafia never stands still and my alliance in New York has been settled. That has been my cover for being here, now it’s time to make a decision.

Isabella

The whole workday was uneasy. He is everywhere and his actions linger everywhere. The horrific actions he undertakes. That same man made me climax yesterday.

I swallow with every bad thought entering me. I’m an imposter, I’m a liar. What will happen to me if they find out? To be honest I don’t care, I know it’s not going to be as bad as disobeying him .

I work only mornings on Wednesdays, and therefore I’m extremely grateful today. Pushing my way through the heavy doors I feel relieved once the cold air hits my face.

My phone buzzes and the caller is someone I did not expect it from, my mother. I haven’t spoken to her in weeks, months even now. We didn’t end things on good terms last time all because of him—my stepfather. He is a manipulative piece of shit and pushes my mom in the wrong direction. It has always been like that, ever since I was little. Memories of the abuse enter my mind.

My mother never said anything. She was scared, but I was just a child, and she did nothing to protect me. There was not a week where he had not been hitting me, kicking me, or locking me up in the basement.

Contemplating whether to answer, I sigh and finally press the phone to my ear. “Mom?” There’s a long pause before her voice, filled with uncertainty, reaches me.

“Hey, sweetie.” She pauses before adding, “I was wondering if you could come over for dinner tonight. We could talk it out.” My mind races as I grapple with the decision. The wounds of the past are still fresh, but a flicker of hope sparks within me—a chance to confront the past and, perhaps, pave the way for healing.

Maybe she changed, and maybe this would do me good. I would lie if I said I have not been missing her. “Okay, Mom,” I respond, my voice betraying a mix of apprehension and determination.

“I’ll come over for dinner. But he isn’t home, right?”

“No, no he works the night shift.”

I nod. “Okay, I’ll be there at 5, okay?” I can feel her smile through the phone as she excitedly thanks me. Guess I’m eating somewhere else tonight.

It’s 5 PM sharp and I’m outside my old childhood home. Bad memories can’t seem to stay away as I knock on the door. My mother opens not a couple of seconds later. I smile, a little awkward. As the door creaks open, I muster a smile, my awkwardness barely concealed. The air seems heavy with unspoken tension, a silent echo of the past that lingered within those familiar walls. My mother greets me with a tight hug, her eyes reflecting a mixture of remorse and anticipation. “Isabella, it’s so good to see you,” she whispers, her voice trembling slightly. I nod, my gaze briefly meeting hers.

“Yeah, it’s been a while.”

The ambiance of the house feels strange, a blend of nostalgia and apprehension. As we settle into the living room, the remnants of my childhood surround me—the faded family photos and the worn-out furniture. Yet, an unspoken truth hangs in the air, a truth that had shattered the illusion of a happy family long ago. The strained atmosphere hangs over the dinner table like a heavy cloud, each bite accompanied by the unspoken tension that lingered in the air. My mother attempts to steer the conversation into safer waters.

“So, darling, how’s work been?” she asks, her voice carrying a forced cheerfulness.

I glance at her, a silent acknowledgment of the delicacy of the situation. “It’s fine, Mom. Just the usual routine.” A lie. The facade of normalcy shattered when my mother, sensing the growing discomfort, took a deep breath and addressed the elephant in the room.

“I know things haven’t been great between us. I want to make amends, to rebuild our relationship.”

Her words hang in the air, a fragile bridge attempting to span the chasm that had widened over the years. I sigh, my gaze meeting hers.

“Mom, I appreciate that, but it’s not just about us. It’s about him.”

Her eyes flicker with a mixture of guilt and sadness. “I know he’s made mistakes, but people can change. I believe in giving him a chance.” I bite my lip, struggling to convey the pain and fear that lurks in my memories.

“Mom, he hurt me. I was just a child, and you knew. How can I forget that? You know he won’t change.”

A heavy silence enveloped the room, broken only by the distant sounds of the neighborhood outside. My mother’s gaze fell, a weighty acknowledgment of the past. She spoke in a hushed tone, “I was scared, Isabella. I thought things would change, but I felt trapped.”

Anguish wells up within me, a conflicted mix of empathy and frustration. “I needed you, Mom. I needed you to protect me.” Her eyes well with tears as she reaches out, her hand trembling.

“I’m so sorry, darling. I want to make things right now, if you’ll let me.”

The sincerity in her voice tugs at my heartstrings, but the wounds run deep. A heavy feeling I have always felt when I was a child. The reason I let no man touch me, ever.

Amidst the conversation and the attempt to find common ground, a sudden chill grips the room. The front door swings open unexpectedly, revealing a figure I had hoped to avoid—my stepfather.

A wave of anxiety washes over me as his eyes lock onto mine, a sinister smile playing on his lips. “Well, well, who do we have here?” His voice drips with condescension as he saunters into the room. My mother’s expression shifts from anticipation to dread, a silent acknowledgment of the turmoil his presence brings. I clench my fists, a surge of anger rising within me. This was not a man I wanted to face, not now, not ever.

“Isabella, what a surprise,” he sneers, his tone laced with a twisted sense of pleasure. I force a tight-lipped smile, but my discomfort is obvious.

“Just here for dinner, nothing more. With that, I also must leave now.”

He chuckles, the sound sending shivers down my spine. “Already? Well, that’s a pity.” He drops his work bag and rushes over to the dinner table. I’m standing up, facing him. My mother shakes at the table and of course, she does nothing. It was a mistake coming here. He stands in front of me. I immediately feel like the child again, the 6-year-old me. His hand reaches out towards me, and with that, the healed scars burst open again.