Chapter 22
Varvara
Itouch the tacky ointment on my chest. The skin is tight, pulsing with a dull ache that matches the throb between my legs.
It’s insane. I should be screaming for the police, yet I’m watching Lev move across the room and wanting to start all over again.
His name is carved into me. I can’t stop looking at it.
The letters are raw and angry, a permanent receipt for my life.
“Stop staring at it,” Lev says without looking back. He’s pulling on his pants, his back a map of the scratches I gave him.
“Hard not to,” I mutter. My voice is a wreck. “You literally branded me, you lunatic.”
“I marked you. A brand is something else altogether, but can be arranged.” He turns, buttoning his shirt. His focus stays on my face, bypassing the mess of the bed. “Do you regret it?”
I consider the question. The old Varvara, the one who worked shifts, worried about rent and felt safe in dark cupboards, would’ve said yes in a heartbeat.
This version of me, the one currently vibrating from the way he just destroyed my sense of self, isn’t so sure.
“I don’t think I have the energy for regret. ”
He sits on the edge of the mattress. He doesn’t touch me, but the air between us feels heavy. “Good. Because regret is a waste of time. Hungry?”
“Yes, but I don’t think I can move.”
“You don’t have to. What did I tell you last night?”
“That you find me incapable and will do everything for me?” I ask with a sassy smile.
He snorts. “Close. The only thing you are incapable of doing is not being stubborn.”
“Not a bad trait.”
“Debatable.”
We stare at each other for a few moments, both taking in the absurdity of this chat after what he just did to me. “Food,” I murmur to break the intensity.
“I’ll bring a tray up. Something substantial. You need the energy if you’re going to keep testing me.”
“I thought I was being punished, not pampered,” I say, pulling the duvet over my lap.
Lev stands. “You were. Now you’re being maintained.” He walks to the door, but stops before he turns the handle. “Don’t touch the cuts. I’ll reapply the ointment after you’ve eaten. Get dressed and stay away from the fucking windows.”
He leaves, and the lock clicks home. I fall back against the pillows, my heart still racing.
My fingers twitch, wanting to trace the letters on my skin, but I keep them flat at my sides.
I’m a prisoner in a mansion, marked like property, and yet the weight of the silence doesn’t feel like a burden anymore.
It feels like a shield from the rest of the world.
I close my eyes and wait for the food. For the first time in two years, the shadows in the corner of the room don’t look like monsters. They just look like shadows. The only monster I need to worry about is the one whose name I bear in blood and flesh.
Climbing out of bed, the movement makes the fresh cuts on my sternum burn.
I don’t wince. The pain is a grounding wire.
It keeps me from floating off into a panic about the fact that I let him carve his name into me.
I head quickly for the shower, knowing I will wash the ointment off, but I feel sticky and sweaty.
I run the water cool so it doesn’t sting the cuts and I bear it, almost revelling in the burn.
I dry myself with a fluffier towel than I ever owned in my old life, patting the skin between my breasts with a gentleness that feels alien.
The water has washed away the slick evidence of our encounter, but the mirror shows a woman I barely recognise.
The letters are red and angry, staring back at me.
Lev. It’s a heavy word for such a small space.
I pull on a pair of clean leggings and a sports bra that doesn’t touch the space between my breasts from the suitcase he brought.
By the time I’ve brushed out my hair and applied my moisturiser, Lev returns with a heavy silver tray.
The smell of roasted chicken and garlic fills the room, making my mouth water instantly.
“It’s breakfast time,” I point out.
“It’s brunch time, and you need more than a yoghurt and some toast.”
“Bacon and eggs would suffice.”
“Sit. I need to reapply this since you decided to wash off the first application.” He holds up a tube of ointment.
“I needed a shower. I was sticky.”
“Yes, sticky with my cum, just the way I like you.”
I huff. “I stank of sweat and nighttime.”
“And? Who are you trying to impress?”
That gives me pause. Who, indeed? “No one. I like basic hygiene. Is that a crime?”
“In this house, everything is a crime.” He sits on the edge of the mattress and beckons me over.
I move toward him. The carpet feels thick under my feet.
I kneel on the floor between his legs. He unscrews the cap.
The metal tube crinkles. He puts a blob of clear gel on his fingertip.
I undo the sports bra, and my skin reacts before he even touches me.
He presses his finger against the first letter. The cold gel hits the raw skin. I catch my breath. He is meticulous. He follows the lines he carved earlier. He doesn’t look away from his work.
“You’re a fucking nightmare,” I whisper.
“I’m the only nightmare that will ever touch you again. If you ever seek out another man, I will gut him like a fucking fish and make you watch before I lock you away in a cage you won’t like.”
“And what do I get to do if you ever seek out another woman?”
He seems caught off guard by my question. Like that never even occurred to him. Whether he is debating the part of him seeking another woman out, or if I get to take my revenge on him for doing so, is a matter only he can answer. He doesn’t.
“I won’t, so there is nothing to discuss,” he says eventually.
I stand up and refasten the sports bra. “Forgive me for not being reassured by your lengthy pause.”
“You want reassurance? When did you decide that I was yours, Varvara?” His eyes dance with amusement tinged with possession.
I give him the same hesitation he gave me, making him wait for my answer. I wait until his eyes darken with impatience. “When I realised that this cage is the safest I’ve felt in a long time.”
He doesn’t know what to do with that, and it annoys him, which amuses me.
“Lost for words?” I murmur.
“Sit. Eat. You don’t have to worry about other women, Varvara. I was yours the second you pulled pepper spray on me in the park.” With that, he stalks out of the room, and I watch him go.
He closes the door but leaves it unlocked, and I sit, ravenous.
The chicken is succulent, the skin crisp and salty. I eat with a ferocity that will likely give me indigestion, but my body demands fuel to repair the damage he inflicted. Each swallow is a reminder that I’m alive, grounded by the sting on my chest and the ache in my pussy.
I’m halfway through a roast potato when a soft knock sounds.
“Come in,” I call out.
Pyotr enters, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor. He carries a small stack of books and a tablet. “Mr Voronov thought you might require entertainment, Miss Krestova. The tablet has no internet access, but it is pre-loaded with films and music.”
He sets them on the dresser, far from the bed, then he leaves.
I pick up the tablet, my fingers hovering over the glass.
I don’t want films. I want the man who carved his name into me to come back and tell me the world hasn’t ended.
I am a mess of contradictions, a girl who once valued her independence, now waiting for her master to return. I hate it. I crave it.
I finish eating and move to the bed, sinking back into the pillows. I am Lev’s marked woman, and the truly terrifying part is how much I’m starting to like the weight of the brand.