4. Lacey
4
LACEY
By the time we return to Pankration, the sun of an uncharacteristically clear day is rising in the distant horizon.
From where I stand in the foyer, I watch Serena run her fingers along the banister of the staircase. Her movements mirror Vadim's so perfectly it takes my breath away. The same graceful economy of motion, the same measured consideration.
But her face looks different.
All except her eyes.
A crash of shattering porcelain makes us both jump. Lenka stands frozen in the doorway, her usually composed features slack with shock. The remnants of a tea service lie scattered at her feet, dark liquid spilling across the marble floor
" Bozhe moy ," she whispers, pressing trembling fingers to her lips. Her eyes never leave Serena's face. "It cannot be..."
Serena shifts uncomfortably under the intensity of her stare. I move closer, ready to intervene, but Lenka is already rushing forward.
"Polinka, is that you?" she breathes, reaching for Serena's face with shaking hands. "No... it can't be..."
Serena takes a startled step back. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"
"Forgive me, devushka ." Lenka's voice cracks. "I knew your mother when she first came to this house." Her eyes grow distant. "You look so much like her."
"You knew my mother?" Serena asks softly. "Here? In this house?"
Lenka nods, tears spilling freely now. "I did, devushka . I did."
As Lenka steps back, wiping tears from her eyes, Serena turns to where Vadim and I stand.
"Where am I?" Her storm-gray eyes—so like her brother's—dart between us. "What is this place?"
The question hangs heavy in the air. I look to Vadim, but his jaw is clenched tight, his shoulders rigid with tension.
"Pankration," I say softly when it becomes clear Vadim won't answer. The name feels like ash in my mouth. "It's..." I trail off, unsure how to explain this monument to pain and power.
"Your brother's home," Lenka finishes for me, her voice gentle but firm. She bends down to start gathering the broken pieces of china, her hands still trembling slightly.
"The house of the man who made me," Vadim corrects sharply. The words crack like ice through the foyer. "Pyotr Stravinsky."
I watch Serena process this, her delicate features—so like Polina's—twisting with confusion. "But Mom never mentioned..." She stops, swallowing hard. "She never talks about any of this."
"No," Vadim says quietly. "She wouldn't."
The weight of unspoken history presses down on us all. I reach for Vadim's hand, threading my fingers through his. His grip is almost painfully tight, but I don't pull away.
"Perhaps," Lenka suggests carefully, "your sister would like to rest? Some food from the kitchen? It's been a long night for everyone."
"No," Serena speaks up, her eyes never leaving Vadim. "I want to know why Mom never talked about this place. Why she never talked about you."
I watch the internal struggle play across Vadim's face at the question. His jaw tightens, and a familiar tension returns to his shoulders.
"Because this..." Vadim's voice trails off. His eyes drift to the ornate walls around us, as if seeing ghosts I cannot. "This is a place of pain and misery."
Serena's brow furrows. "I don't understand."
"You don't need to." Vadim's voice turns hard. "All you need to know is that this was her prison. Her hell."
He stops himself, clearly wrestling with how much to reveal to his teenage sister.
I reach over and slip my hand into his. His fingers intertwine with mine, squeezing tight enough that I feel the slight tremor he's trying to hide. The contact seems to steady him, and some of the rigid tension eases from his frame.
"There's a reason your mother never spoke of this place," he continues more gently. "A reason she built a new life far from here. The memories within these walls..." He draws a deep breath. "They're better left in darkness."
I feel Vadim's grip tighten as Serena's voice rises, sharp with anger and fear.
“Better left in darkness?” Her storm-gray eyes flash. "I was shoved into a shipping container with thirty other people. They shot one of them right in front of us just to make a point!" Her voice cracks. "And that woman. She made us listen while..." She swallows hard. "While her men hurt them upstairs."
Vadim's hand trembles in mine. I squeeze it gently, trying to give him strength for what must come next.
"Don't you think I deserve to know why Mom never told me about this? About you?" Serena demands. "What terrible thing happened here that made her choose to erase it completely?"
The silence stretches between them. I watch Vadim's throat work as he struggles to find the words. Finally, he speaks, his voice rough with pain.
"Thirty-six years ago, Mom was brought to this house against her will as a slave." His words come slowly, as if each one costs him dearly. "And I was the result."
Despite the weight of Vadim's revelation, Serena doesn't recoil. Her chin lifts slightly, reminding me of the way Vadim squares his shoulders before facing difficult truths. Maybe it's because she just witnessed the depths of human cruelty in that concrete building, or maybe this strength runs deeper—an inheritance of strength from Polina, passed down to both her children.
Those same storm-gray eyes drift to me, studying my face. Her brow furrows as her gaze catches on my neck. I resist the urge to cover the marks there, knowing it would only draw more attention to them. The bruises from where Vadim's fingers pressed into my flesh during our confrontation on the stairs feel like they're burning under her scrutiny.
Her gaze travels down to my wrists where similar marks peek out from beneath my sleeves. The silence grows heavy as understanding dawns on her face.
"The bruises around your neck." Her voice trembles slightly. "Who did that to you?"
"I did." Vadim's admission is quiet but firm beside me.
The alarm that flashes across Serena's features makes my heart clench. She takes a small step back, looking between us with growing horror.
Before she can say anything else, I step forward.
"Serena, wait." My voice comes out gentler than I intended. "Your brother and I... it's complicated. But you need to understand. He never did anything I didn't explicitly ask for. Want, even."
She looks at me with eyes far too knowing for her sixteen years. Of course she would be perceptive beyond her age.
She's Polina's daughter, raised to see the darkness lurking beneath polite surfaces. To question everything, and trust no one.
"You don't have to defend him," she says quietly, and the protectiveness in her tone makes my chest ache.
"I'm not. I'm simply telling you the truth." I meet her searching gaze steadily. "Your brother is a complex man. In time, you'll come to see that. But please believe me when I say these marks aren't what you think they are."
The skepticism doesn't leave her face, but something in her posture softens slightly. She's still watching us both carefully, weighing my words against her own instincts.
"I can have a car take you home," Vadim says, his voice softening. "Mom is worried about you."
My heart squeezes at the tenderness in his tone. It's the same gentle cadence he used with me in the shower, when his touches turned from brutal to healing.
Serena's eyes drift between us again, lingering on the protective way Vadim's hand rests at the small of my back. I can see the questions in her eyes.
But she doesn't talk. Instead, she just nods slowly, processing everything she's learned in the past few hours.
"Okay," she says finally. "I'll go home." She pauses, then adds. "For now."
"For now." Vadim's voice is rough with emotion. "When the time comes, the doors to this place will always be open, and I'll answer what I can. I promise."
I watch as Serena climbs into the back of the black SUV. She gives me a small wave before they drive off, leaving Vadim and me alone in the circular driveway.
"You should go with them," I say softly. "She's your sister."
Vadim shakes his head. "I've caused enough pain in Polina's life. She doesn't want to see me. Not when I've become just like him."
"That's not true." The words burst from me before I can stop them.
"Can you really say that?" His laugh is bitter, hollow. "After what I did to you on those stairs?"
He turns to me, and the raw anguish in his eyes makes my heart crack.
"I hurt you, degraded you, used you the way he would have used her."
"That's not true. You wanted to stop?—"
"But I didn't." His voice breaks. "I should have walked away. Instead, I let my anger control me. I became him."
"Vadim—"
"I'm sorry," he whispers, and the naked vulnerability in those two words steals my breath. "I'm so sorry for what I did to you. I understand why you wanted to get away from me. Why you went to Olga for help."
He looks away, and blinks fiercely.
"Like she did."
My chest aches at the self-loathing in his voice. I want to tell him that he's wrong, that the real monster is the twisted part of me that demanded that pain, that pushed him past his limits just to satisfy my own twisted need for punishment.
He wasn't the one who used me.
I was the one who used him.
He turns to stare at the empty driveway where his sister was just a few moments ago.
"You didn't drive me away." I reach for his hand but stop when I see the bandage on the bite mark I left.
"I did." Self-loathing drips from every word. "I forced myself on you?—"
"No, Vadim." My voice comes out sharper than intended. "I begged you to hurt me. I wanted..." The words stick in my throat, but I have to say it. I have to let him know. "I wanted you to hurt me."
" Zvyozdochka, I?—"
"Let me finish, please," I whisper as I take his hand in mine. "You weren't the one who used me. I used you. For my own selfish needs."
My voice cracks as I continue.
"I forced you to cross that line, Vadim. Partly because I wanted the physical pain to match the guilt eating me up inside since Paris." I take a deep breath. "But also because I knew I could. You can't force yourself to shoulder all the blame because I had my part in it too. I knew that the one thing you were afraid of the most was becoming like him, yet I kept pushing you towards that anyways."
Vadim's jaw clenches. "Lacey?—"
"I know you want to think that you're the monster here, but you're not." The words tumble out. "I have my share of the blame as much as you. And that's the real reason why I ran. Not because of anything you did. But because I realized I didn't want to push you deeper into the darkness you've been running from your entire life."
"We both fucked up, haven't we?"
A bitter laugh escapes me. "Spectacularly."
He's quiet for a long moment, and then his hands finally reach for mine.
But where a touch like this used to send an undeniable surge of warmth coursing through me, all I feel now is a coldness seeping from him into my bones.
I grip his hand tighter, hoping desperately to feel that warmth again, but it doesn't come.
And I don't know how I can get it to ever return.