44. Lacey
44
LACEY
THE NEXT MORNING
I trace my fingers over the angry marks on my thighs, each one a reminder of yesterday. The bed feels too big, too empty without Vadim here. My body aches in ways that should make me recoil, but instead send shivers of desire through me.
What terrifies me most isn't what we just did on the stairs.
It's how desperately I wanted it. How I begged for it.
I close my eyes but immediately snap them open again. The images are too vivid—my teeth drawing blood from his hand, his tears as he tried to resist hurting me, and the way his control finally shattered.
"You knew," I whisper. "You knew exactly what you were doing to him."
I goaded him, pushed him, made him hurt me. I forced him to become everything he fears and hates about his father.
After everything I learned about him… I thought I would want to protect him from his own dark past.
Instead, I used it—and him—for my own needs.
I can't help the tears leaking from the corner of my eyes. Deep down, I know the truth.
The monster isn't Vadim.
It's me.
Our time in the shower afterwards proved that. His gentle touches, him asking permission, and his lips tracing over every mark he left in apology. There was a tenderness in his eyes that I didn't deserve.
He made love to me like I was something precious, and not the manipulative bitch who forced him to cross a line he never wanted to cross.
I roll onto my side, burying my face in his pillow. His scent surrounds me—that mix of spice and something uniquely him. The same scent had filled my nose when he held me under the shower spray, whispering praise I didn't deserve as he moved inside me with such excruciating gentleness.
More tears slide down my cheek. I don't deserve his tenderness after what I made him do.
It's noon by the time I emerge on shaky legs and nothing but a robe, my skin still flushed and tender. My body is still thrumming from the memory of everything that happened yesterday.
The hallway feels too bright, too exposed.
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold the broken pieces together.
My heart nearly stops when I see Olga waiting in the hallway, face arrayed into an unreadable mask. Her eyes drill into mine with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.
My heart stutters in my chest and fear coils in my stomach.
"Come," she commands in that cold, aristocratic voice.
Every instinct screams at me to run. But where can I go? Defeated, I follow her through Pankration's maze of corridors. My bare feet make no sound on the polished floors behind her. Each step feels like walking to my own execution but I don't dare to stop.
All along us hang paintings of stern-faced men. Their eyes seem to follow me, judging.
She leads me to an ornate sitting room I've never seen before. Heavy curtains block most of the light, and everything is enshrouded in shadows. The furniture looks like museum pieces, nothing but dark wood and deeper shadows.
By the looks of it, nobody's been in here for years.
"Sit." She gestures to an antique chair across from her chosen seat.
I perch on the edge of an antique settee, pulling the robe tighter around myself and feeling small and exposed under her piercing gaze.
She studies me for a long moment, eyes cataloging every inch of my skin. When she finally speaks, each word hammers at my heart:
"Pyotr's bastard raped you."
It's not a question, but a simple statement. But I'm stunned at how easily she says it. For a moment, I can't breathe. My mind turns back to the memory of yesterday.
The stark difference between how we hurt each other in every way possible on the stairs and how he held me tenderly in the shower is playing hell on my mind.
Even now, I can feel the ghost of his touch—at times careful and loving, and at times rough and bruising.
That contrast. That goddamn contrast.
It hurts worse than any physical pain could.
"No," I finally whisper, my voice hoarse. "He didn't."
"I know what I heard yesterday." Olga's voice cuts through me like winter wind. "The entirety of Pankration heard. For a single moment, it was as if this place's old master had returned."
I wrap my arms tighter around myself, fighting a shiver. The silk of my robe suddenly feels too thin, too revealing.
"He didn't rape me. I asked him to do those things that you heard."
No. I didn't ask him. I forced him to do it.
"Asked him?" Her laugh is bitter, hollow. She leans forward. "Pyotr would tell us the same thing. That we asked him to do the terrible things he did to us."
"Vadim's not Pyotr!" My stomach twists at the comparison. "Vadim wouldn't do that to me without asking."
"You believe those words?" Her eyes sweep over my bruises, and she points to my neck. "Even after that?"
"Even after this." My voice shakes but I force myself to meet her gaze.
Olga's lips curl into a cold smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Do you think that makes him better? That just because he waited for you to ask, it makes him different from Pyotr?"
"Doesn't it?" I ask, unsure if I'm asking her or trying to convince myself.
She leans forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Do you remember what I told you in Paris?"
I swallow hard. "You said he would put blood on my hands."
"Did he?"
I remember Irina's death with painful clarity—the way her blood soaked through my trembling fingers and stained my dress as we fled Paris on the jet.
But I also remember the way Vadim's blood filled my mouth yesterday. As much as he may have put blood on my hands, I did the same to him.
But Olga is expecting an answer, and so I take a breath and admit. "He did."
She nods, a small sound tumbling out of her nose as she does so.
"That was just the beginning." Her words slice through me like knives and she points at my bruises. "And so are those."
Silence falls between us for a few heartbeats as Olga lets me mull over her words.
"Do you know why I brought you here?" Olga asks, her eyes never leaving my face.
I shake my head, trying to suppress another shiver. Something about this room feels wrong. The shadows seem darker, more menacing. The air itself feels thick with old pain.
"This is where Pyotr's bastard was conceived." Her words hit me like ice water. "This very room."
My eyes dart around, taking in the heavy curtains and antique furniture with new horror. Everything suddenly feels tainted.
"I know the story," I whisper, though my voice catches. "He told me already."
"Do you?" Olga's lips curl into that dangerous smile again. "Because there are parts even Pyotr's bastard might not know about his own creation." Olga's voice drops lower, more intimate. Like we're sharing secrets. "But you? You've suffered like Polina did. It would be irresponsible of me not to tell you the full truth, one Stravinsky’s wife to another, so you might know exactly what you've married."
My heart pounds against my ribs. Part of me wants to run from whatever horror story she's about to reveal. But another part needs to know.
To understand.
Wordless, I nod.
"Two days after Polina was brought back from death's door, Pyotr told her that he had a surprise for her." Olga's lips twist into a cruel line. "He dragged her from her bed in chains like a dog to this very room where the entire household was forced to wait. And then he brought out her little brother."
My eyes dart to the antique carpet beneath my feet, and my stomach roils in anticipation of what fresh horrors Olga is about to reveal.
"She screamed when she saw him, and begged Pyotr to let the boy go." Her words slice through me. "She promised she wouldn't try it again, promised to be good, promised to let him do whatever he wanted to her."
My hands tremble and I reach slowly for my throat, remembering the way Vadim's fingers felt as they tightened around it.
The way I begged him to hurt me.
"Pyotr didn't, of course. He slit the boy's throat in front of Polina. And then..." Olga's voice turns to ice. "He raped her with her brother's blood still warm on his hands."
I barely make it to a potted plant in the corner before my stomach empties itself. The acid burns as I heave, sending fresh tears down my face. When I finally straighten, trembling, Olga's eyes drill into me with a terrifying intensity.
"I haven't heard screams like that for thirty-six years until yesterday, devushka ," she says softly. "And that was proof enough that Pyotr's blood runs hot in the bastard's veins."
I continue to retch until nothing comes up but bitter bile. My throat burns, my eyes stream with tears. Olga doesn't move to help me. She just watches, her silence more devastating than any words could be.
When my stomach finally stops heaving, I slump against the wall, wiping my mouth with a trembling hand. The robe has slipped off one shoulder but I can't find the strength to fix it.
The shadows in this room feel alive now, writhing with the ghosts of past horrors. Every surface seems tainted by what happened here.
"I can help you escape." Olga's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. "Just like I helped Polina. You're not the first girl I've saved from a Stravinsky, and you won't be the last."
"But..." My voice cracks. My heart pounds against my ribs. "Where will I go? What about my family?"
"I will help you forge a new identity, a new life, far away from all of this." Her eyes drift to my neck. "Far away from him . This is your chance to start fresh. A chance to be free before Pyotr's darkness can take him."
"You don't understand," I whisper, more to myself than to Olga. "He didn't want to do it."
"It doesn't matter that he didn't want to," Olga replies. "It only matters that he did in the end."
The image of his face haunts me—the anguish in his eyes when I demanded he hurt me, the tears that fell as he tried to resist. And still I pushed him, knowing exactly what buttons to press.
I'm just some woman whose fiancé you killed.
Those words ring in my head now, a testament to my cruelty. I knew mentioning Nathan would hurt him. I wanted it to hurt him.
You took all my choices away.
Another lie. I made my own choices. I chose to stay after Paris. I chose to help Svoboda. And yesterday...
Yesterday, I chose to make him cross that line.
My stomach churns with fresh nausea as understanding crashes over me. If Vadim becomes like Pyotr, it won't be because of his father's blood running through his veins.
It will be because I pushed him there.
I forced him to embrace the very darkness he's spent his whole life running from. I made him act out his worst fears about himself.
And for what? Because I couldn't handle my own guilt? Because I needed someone else to punish me when I couldn't punish myself?
Tears slip down my cheeks as self-loathing rises like bile in my throat. This is all my fault. Everything—from Nathan's betrayal to Irina's death to the pain in Vadim's eyes.
It's all because of me.
I did this.
I broke him.
I push myself up from the floor, legs trembling. The solution hits me with crushing clarity—if there's any hope of saving Vadim from becoming like Pyotr, I need to leave before I can tempt him further into darkness.
"When?" I manage to ask.
"Tonight. After midnight. Pack nothing. Everything you need will be provided when you escape." She stands smoothly, straightening her immaculate dress. "Meet me in the conservatory. Don't tell anyone. Don't leave any signs."
My mouth goes dry as she moves toward the door. "Why are you helping me?"
Olga pauses, her hand on the ornate doorknob. "Because I know where your story will end if you stay. But unlike Polina..." She turns back to me, her eyes gleaming in the dim light. "You still have a chance to change it."