Matilda
Morning reaches me slowly.
Light filters through unfamiliar curtains, pale and quiet, brushing across the ceiling. My breath moves in and out without effort, my body awake before my thoughts catch up. Sleep never stood a chance. Too much happened in the night.
Thoughts of my family creep in. What did they do with my brother’s body? Are my siblings okay? What are my mother and father doing in the aftermath of the night?
Sadness finally catches up to me with a sharp pain in my chest. I force myself to get out of bed and pad through to the en-suite.
Minutes later, the room is filled with steam as water drums against my skin until my muscles soften and my head clears enough to function. I don’t let myself cry. I made a decision. I chose myself for the first time in my life. God only knows no one ever chose me before.
There’s a knock on the door as I wrap a fluffy towel around my torso. Nerves bubble in my stomach, but I go through and open the door anyway.
"Matilda?" The voice is soft, feminine. "It’s Mila, Gennady’s sister." She says it like it’s a question, slightly raised on the word "sister." Testing whether that would help me trust her or not, I suppose.
I open the door and smile out of politeness more than anything.
She stands there with an easy smile and a stack of clothes piled in her arms. Her dark hair is pulled back. A bruise blooms high on her cheekbone, purple at the edges, impossible to ignore. Her eye is puffy and swollen, but not all the way closed.
Nausea rolls in my stomach…my brother did that.
"Hi," I say.
"Hi," she replies, already stepping inside. "I brought you something to wear. They’re… well-loved." Amusement curves her mouth. "Temporary. At least until your own things arrive."
Relief spreads through me faster than I expect. "Thank you."
She waves it off like it’s nothing. "Trust me, you won’t be thanking me when you’re wearing clothes from the fifties. The housekeeper is a hoarder and a big believer in make-do-and-mend. So, yeah…" she trails off with a soft gesture to the pile of clothes that she dropped on the bed.
I dig out a T-shirt that’s at least three sizes too big and pair of jeans that have worn through at the knees. Finally, a hoody with a rip in the elbow and emblazoned with a band I’ve never heard of, but it covers me up and hides that I don’t have a bra.
My gaze drifts back to her face. To the bruise.
A breath steadies me before I speak. "You’re the woman my brother hurt."
Stillness settles between us.
"Yes." She straightens a little when she says it. Like it takes courage, but she has the spine.
"I’m sorry." The words come clean and certain. "He was cruel. To me, too. Just… quiet about it."
Mila exhales, slow and controlled. "Kindness was always conditional with him. It came with expectations. I’m sorry my brother killed him."
Anger coils low in my stomach, sharp and familiar. "Don’t be. I won’t miss him," I say. "Not for a second. And I hope you won’t either. He isn’t worth it."
Her hand closes around mine, firm and reassuring. "I agree."
"Do you have any witch-hazel?" I ask. "It will help it fade quicker."
She smiles. "Nah. Marie, the housekeeper, has a steak in the fridge she made me keep on for an hour last night and threatened to sit me down with it again this morning." She rolls her eyes, but it’s clear she is fond of the housekeeper.
"Is that who I should report to this morning?" I ask, wondering if Gennady has set anything up yet in terms of my employment.
Mila frowns, tilting her head slightly. "What do you—"
Footsteps sound in the hall. His presence seems to arrive before the knock does, the air shifting in a way that makes my spine straighten.
Mila’s frown deepens when he knocks on the door. Her eyes flicking back to me with curiosity.
"Matilda," Gennady says through the door. "Are you…decent?"
My pulse quickens. Mila lifts her brows, amusement written plain across her face.
I square my shoulders and reach for the handle.
"As ready as I’ll ever be," I say, taking a deep breath, because I don’t feel ready at all.
"Welp," Mila says, popping the P as Gennady enters the room. "I’ve got a date with a big fat juicy…" she gestures holding something big with both hands, "steak."
Mila smirks mischievously at Gennady, who is looking at her with resignation. A genuine smile stretches over my face as she winks her good eye at me and wiggles her eyebrows while Gennady shakes his head and shoos her out the door.
"She is lovely," I say once the door is closed behind her.
"Yes," Gennady agrees as our eyes lock and the air in the room thins. My mind’s eye immediately goes to the not-kiss, and I drag my bottom lip between my teeth.
It’s a bad habit, chewing my lip when I’m nervous. Most of the time, I don’t even know I’m doing it, but when Gennady’s eyes drop to my mouth and narrow, I release it quickly.
Standing in front of him like this feels different.
Last time he saw me, I was barefoot in a torn nightdress and his borrowed jacket. Now I’m dressed in clothes that don’t belong to me, my hair still damp, skin flushed with embarrassment or awareness...I’m not sure which.
The oversized hoody hides more than it shows, swallowing my shape and making me feel younger, smaller, like I’ve stepped backwards instead of forward.
I’m used to being softer than this. Dresses. Skirts. Clothes chosen carefully to look pleasant without drawing attention. This version of me feels unfinished, like I’ve shown up to my new life without the right preparation.
Gennady's gaze moves over me anyway, slow and unreadable. Heat creeps up my neck, and I resist the urge to tug the hem of the hoody lower.
"We need to talk," he says.
Three words that sound like a verdict.
I nod, because what else can I do? I followed him here. I gave up my family. I let him taste my blood in the back of a car and brand me with words I still don't understand.
Whatever comes next, I know I chose this. Even if I don't know what "this" is yet.