29. Octavia
Aknock sounds at the door.
I press my face further into my pillow, legs stiffening beneath the blanket.
“Octavia?”
Go away.
Voicing the thought is too much effort. I don’t move. Maybe if I’m still enough, I’ll eventually disappear, and everyone will finally leave me the fuck alone.
“Octavia,” the deep voice repeats, closer this time. “I saw you out today, training with the Morozov boy.”
My muscles ache at the memory. Secretly, I’d been hoping the act of getting out of bed and into the sunlight would be enough to snap me out of this haze. I felt everyone watching me. Waiting to see if I was cured from whatever cowardice was keeping me in the bedroom.
“I’m tired,” I whisper, not bothering to flip around and face him. “Can we talk some other time, Dad?”
When he doesn’t respond, I close my eyes, hoping he’ll cut his losses and leave me be.
Facing him is the last thing I want to do right now.
I didn’t even have the energy to shower when I stormed back into the room earlier this afternoon and collapsed into the blankets.
That simple act takes so much work these days—pulling off every bandage strapped to my skin, cleaning what’s underneath, patting it all dry, wrapping it all back up.
I tried. Well, I at least thought about trying to get my ass up and into the fancy glass shower standing only ten steps away.
I’ve had the room to myself for a few hours since our training session, but I haven’t bothered to move.
Whatever rhythm or focus I found in the courtyard is long gone by now, nothing but a distant memory.
Unfortunately, when I feel the bed dip beside me, I know he’s going to make another attempt.
Stubborn.
He’s stubborn because I’m stubborn.
“It was good to see you up, love. I was hoping you’d come down for family dinner—”
“Not tonight.” My voice strains to remain steady beneath the welling tears. Useless. All he wants is for you to act like the daughter he thought he’d finally found, and you can’t even make an attempt to be pleasant.
My eyes blur beneath the wet wave, but I hold in my sniffles. He already has an ungrateful kid. He doesn’t need a crying one, too. I hold perfectly still, not even allowing my lungs to inflate until the weight shifts off the bed and silence falls back over the room.