Painted Scars: Chapter 4

My phone rings while I’m buttoning my shirt, showing my uncle’s name on the screen. The old boar normally likes to sleep till noon on Sundays. I know only one reason why he would be calling this early.

“What is it, Leonid?” I bark into the phone.

“I heard you brought a woman. Is she still in the house?”

“This is my house, so it doesn’t concern you.”

“It means she is. You never bring your sluts home,” he says, and my body goes rigid.

“If I hear you called her that again, in front of me or anyone else, I’m going to slit your throat. Is that clear?”

“What the hell has gotten into you, Roman?”

“Have I been clear, Leonid?”

There is silence on the other side of the line before he answers, “Yes.”

“Good.” I cut the line.

I hate that man, but I can’t risk throwing him out, no matter how much I want to. Leonid knows too much, and I need him here, where I can keep my eye on him the whole time.

I reach for the crutches leaning on the nightstand, place them on either side of me, and hoist myself up. Putting the crutches under my armpits, I take a deep breath and make the first few painfully-slow steps. My knee is usually stiff in the mornings, but it’s much better than a month ago. All those hours of physical therapy are finally paying off, but I’m still a long way away from getting rid of the damn wheelchair. I hate the bloody thing, but I still have days when the pain is too strong, and I can’t bear to even move my right leg.

When I find the bastards who planted that bomb, I’m going to enjoy killing them. I might have been sedated, but I remember two people talking in my hospital room. I couldn’t recognize the voices or grasp the whole meaning of what was said, but I understood enough to know that they were involved.

One of them is probably my flesh and blood, living under my roof. I don’t have proof, but I’m almost certain that Leonid played a part. Who is the other one? I still have to find out.

When I leave my room, I hear a sound of slightly off-key singing coming from the kitchen and turn to see Nina rummaging through the fridge. I knew she was short, but from my sitting position last night, I wasn’t able to pinpoint her exact height. She’s even shorter than I thought, barely five feet. The hem of my T-shirt reaches down to her knees, and she looks comical in it. Barefoot, the top of her head wouldn’t even come to my breastbone.

She’s standing with her back to me, so she doesn’t see me when I approach to stand by the dining table a few paces behind her.

“Anything interesting in that fridge?” I ask.

Nina jumps with a startled yelp and closes the fridge with a bang. “Shit, you almost gave me a heart att—”

She stops mid-sentence and just stands there staring at me, her eyes huge. I expected her to be surprised seeing me out of the wheelchair, but the emotion showing on her face is not a surprise. It’s fear.

“Nina?” I take a step toward her.

She flinches and takes a step back, bumping into the fridge. Her breathing quickens, becoming shallow like she can’t take enough air in, and her hands are slightly trembling. She is having a panic attack. I have no idea what triggered it, but she’s terrified of something and I’m pretty certain that the something is me. It makes no sense. Just a couple of hours earlier I was holding her in my lap, and she didn’t look scared at all.

“Roman,” she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper, “I need you to sit down. Please.”

I don’t see the sense in her request, but I take two steps toward the dining table, pull out the chair, and sit down. Nina stays rooted to the spot in front of the fridge, but at least her breathing seems to be coming under control.

A stray thought crosses my mind, something she said when we arrived. I remember it clearly now and I don’t like what it implies. “You said something last night. I need you to explain what you meant by that.”

She blinks and shakes her head. “What exactly?”

Her voice is stronger now, almost normal, but still, she doesn’t move. Her back is plastered to the fridge like she wants to melt into it.

I focus my eyes on her face, making sure I catch her reaction. “What did you mean by ‘I’m not a fan of large things’?”

She blinks and, instead of answering, turns on her heel and runs into her room. The door closes with a bang at the same time my realization settles in and anger starts boiling in my stomach. Someone hurt her, and for her to react this way, it must have been really bad.

The clock on the nightstand shows two p.m. I can’t stay locked in the room the whole day, I know that. But still, I can’t make myself go there and face Roman after the episode from this morning. He probably thinks I’m crazy. God, even after two years, I’m still fucked up in the head.

It was getting better. I came to a point where I was able to be in the company of huge men without freaking out. I could even hold a normal conversation, as long as they didn’t touch me. Yes, most people, especially men, are taller than me. But most of them don’t trigger a panic attack. I only react to men who are as tall as Brian had been, and who have significant muscle mass.

Roman looks nothing like Brian, who was blond and had a surfer look about him, but they have similar height and build. Maybe if I was warned in some way, or if I knew what to expect, I wouldn’t have reacted so extremely. But I was still sleepy, and with Roman suddenly towering in front of me, I just flipped.

I have to get out of this room. There is still work to do, people to deceive. I can do this.

Lifted by my self-pep talk, I get up from the bed, and with my head held high, I march out of the room.

Roman is sitting at the table, fork in one hand and holding his phone to his ear with the other. Judging by the dark look on his face, it’s not good news. I do my best to school my features and join him, picking the chair next to him on purpose. My action says, “I’m not afraid of you. The episode from the kitchen was just a misunderstanding. Let’s pretend it never happened.”

He’s still on the phone when I sit down, but he’s been following my every step with his eyes. Making sure that my moves are perfectly calm, I fill a glass with water and focus on the food in the middle of the table. There is a bowl of mashed potatoes, an assortment of fish, and some salads, so I take a plate and pile it up. I grab a slice of bread as well and dig in.

“I’ll be downstairs in twenty minutes,” Roman says into the phone, puts it down on the table, and resumes eating.

We eat in silence, the only sound coming from the cutlery and it’s strangely . . . domestic. I expected him to start asking about this morning, but he doesn’t even mention it, and I’m relieved.

“I sent Valentina to pick up some of your clothes,” he says finally. “They’re in a bag in the living room.”

“Peachy.” I grab a cherry tomato from my plate and throw it in my mouth.

Roman leans back and, crossing his arms in front of him, watches me for a few seconds. I try to focus on my food instead of his muscular arms which are stretching the material of his shirt. I fail miserably.

He tilts his head to the side and narrows his eyes at me. “You know, I find it very interesting that you are handling this situation much better than I hoped.”

“What situation?” I reach for the salad bowl and refill my plate with lettuce and more cherry tomatoes.

“This. Being blackmailed into a marriage with someone like me. Having to put your life on hold for six months. I expected you to be wary. Reluctant. Scared. You seem . . . unnaturally nonchalant.”

“You think I’m mentally unstable?” I take a leaf of lettuce, wrap it around a cherry tomato and dip it into the mayonnaise while Roman regards me with interest.

“Are you?” he asks. “Mentally unstable?”

“Of course, not. I’m the embodiment of mental stability. Ask anyone.” I point to my lettuce-tomato-mayo ball. “You want one?”

Based on the look on his face, he is not amused. I sigh and look him straight in the eyes. “Yes, I find this situation disturbing, but it is what it is. Do I have a say in it? No. Can I change anything? No, again. Whether I fight it or not, the result will be the same. The way I see it, it’s better to just accept the fucking thing and go along with it.”

“You’re a little nuts, you know that, right?”

“Life is crazy. You have to embrace it.” I shrug and motion with my head toward the crutches leaned on the table next to him. “Why the wheelchair when you can walk?”

“I’d rather call it dragging. And I still can’t manage the whole day on crutches. I plan on ditching the wheelchair at some point, but until I can make it a full day, I don’t want anyone to know.”

“Why not?”

“I have my reasons. Only Maxim, Varya, and my physiotherapist know. And now you. I want to keep it that way, Nina.”

“Nobody has caught you walking? A maid? Someone coming into your suite unannounced?”

“Only Varya is allowed in here. She handles the cleaning. Everyone else knows to stay out of my rooms unless they are specifically invited.”

“And what would happen if someone did catch you? Would that be a problem?”

“Not really. Because I would kill them on the spot.”

At first, I think he’s joking, but then he looks at me and I see it in his eyes. He’s dead serious.

“You are a scary man, Mr. Petrov.”

“It goes with the job description, Nina,” he says. “There are only three things people understand in my world: loyalty, money, and death. Remember that.” He reaches for the crutches. “I have to discuss something with Maxim. I’ll be back in an hour.”

I stand up quickly, take a deep breath, and will my legs not to move from the spot. There is no way I’ll allow the episode from this morning to repeat itself. He is not Brian. I will not let my unreasonable fear rule me.

Roman positions his crutches on either side of him and stands upright in front of me. Dear God, he’s huge. My heartbeat quickens but I manage not to flinch. I can handle this. I will be living with him for the next six months, so I have to get it together. Very slowly I raise my head and look him in the eyes without batting an eyelash. But I sure as shit make certain my trembling hands are hidden behind my back.

“I wonder what they fed you growing up,” I say, and even manage a small smirk.

He just watches me for a few seconds, and then reaches with his hand and trails his thumb down my cheek.

“You are an exceptional actress, malysh.”

His hand vanishes from my cheek and he slowly heads into his bedroom. I wonder what he meant by that.