by Lana Sky
After he leaves, I curl up on a leather chaise, tucking my legs beneath me. At first glance, the brochure looks like a typical overview of the average college campus. Numb, I flip through the first few pages, only to realize that the latter half is a summary of information for an entrance exam. English. Math. Spelling. All those subjects that feel like distant relics from high school.
Because I did so fucking good back then. My eyes squint as I run over the various subjects. Some jackass had the nerve to insert “general knowledge” in there somewhere, as if geography and the shape of fucking clouds are something everyone knows. The only thing that makes somewhat sense is math. Maybe because it’s all I ever excelled at—a bitch who couldn’t count her money right had no business hooking, after all.
I try my hand at the practice questions at the very back of the booklet. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. It’s like playing a game of how badly I can fuck up, proving something I’ve always known. Hell, even Melanie told me once that I’d only ever excel at one thing: lying on my back.
And plain fucking lying.
Chapter Ten
I would sell my soul in a heartbeat to keep my family safe. I used to tell myself that. I used to say it out loud. Once, I even shouted it at Melanie when she’d had the nerve to bitch about the sacrifices she made, having her children so young. “High school,” she’d scoffed. “You had it easy. I didn’t get to do any of that shit.”
Fuck her. That bitch never knew the meaning of sacrifice. But do I? It’s turning out to require more than I ever thought it would. Surrender is beyond enduring someone else’s abuse, apparently.
It’s having them ask you to like it.
It’s believing that you might even need it…
It’s letting yourself fall without even trying to safely land.
Only now am I starting to understand that I never really had to sacrifice anything, either. Nothing that really matters, anyway. Despite all the hell I’ve been through, I’ve always still been Frankie. Jaded, bitter, desperate, defiant, fucked-up, fucking Francesca Marconi.
No one had ever asked me to stop being her before. They never had anything to offer in exchange: namely all the shit I always told myself I never needed. Security. Safety…
I’ve given up so fucking much for my family over the years, but I’m not sure if I can leave that girl behind. Go figure. She’s been the only bitch I could rely on.
Hell, Maxim easily found another toy.
And yet I remain in his dollhouse.
The obvious expense of the place seems eerie now. Alone in the living room, my breaths echo: shallow rasps echoing off the walls. I see myself. No matter where I look, my reflection gazes up at me from the polished floors. Only it’s not mine entirely, but a woman who looks like me. Her eyes are wide and mocking, her hair a tangled mess.
Don’t worry, baby, she tells me, snickering. It doesn’t seem to faze her that her throat is slashed open and bleeding. At least now you know what to look forward to.
Fuck her. I turn so that I’m lying flat on my side, but my hair drips over the edge of the chaise, spilling onto the floor like blood. If I squint, that’s what it looks like. Carnage. Death.
Murder…
He said she was stabbed. Did she even see it coming? Did she suffer?
I doubt it. Melanie never suffered the consequences of her actions. She wouldn’t hesitate to put me or the others in her place, either.
So. She. Shouldn’t. Matter.
God, I wish she was here. I’d punch her. Hit her. Say all those things I had enough tact not to while she was alive. I’d give her a real fucking sendoff.
She’d never have the last word...
And she still won’t.
I shake my head as if the act alone can drive her out and rise from the chaise. Enough. She’s dead.
She’s dead.
Gritting my teeth, I escape into the bathroom and run the bath water as hot as I can stand it. The noise helps somewhat in drowning her out—but not completely.
I see her on the water’s surface. She’s smiling. Smirking, taunting me from the grave: You call this struggling, sweetie? You’ve had it easy.
Fuck her. Closing my eyes, I submerge myself beneath the water, counting the seconds.
One.
Two.
Ten.
Gasping, I resurface, only to find a stranger watching me from the mirror’s surface. Her eyes are bloodshot. Straggly brown hair clings to her shoulders, a far cry from Melanie’s multicolored wigs. But the haunted quality of their expression is the same.
Like mother like daughter…
I startle to awareness in my room, blinking back the remnants of a nightmare. One of the shapeless phantoms chases me into the real world. When I leave my room, intending to make breakfast, he’s standing at the base of the stairs.
Dressed in a gray suit, he takes one look at me and inclines his head. “Get dressed. I’ll be waiting out front.”
My fingers sneak to the inside of my wrist, pinching hard—but I don’t wake up. “You’re taking me?”
It’s obvious. I think I just need to hear him say it.
His eyes sweep over me, revealing nothing. Turning on his heel, he approaches the door. “I’ll be in the car.”
Unease has me swallowing hard. Aware of him waiting, I wash up in record time and wrestle my hair into a ponytail. Minutes later, it is a surprisingly normal trip down to his car.
No dead mothers make an unwelcome appearance. No unspoken tension ruins the odd familiarity between us. Hell, it could be just a normal day in Maxim Koslov’s world—until I spot the uncharacteristic clutter lying across the car’s front seat.
I’m stopped in my tracks, vaguely aware of the frown tugging on my mouth.
“One of the children must have left them behind last night,” Maxim says, sounding miles away.
Them. Soft, red petals spill from a dying set of roses, tied together with white ribbon. They’re cut short, the perfect length for placing on an altar.
Or a coffin.
I shake my head and wrench on the handle, opening the passenger’s side door. “How… How was it?” The memorial service. God, just pairing that word in the same context with Melanie makes me snicker.
“It went well.” He sounds so cold. I can’t parse anything unspoken he might be hiding.
“G-good.” With one hand, I grab the roses. Freeze. Their delicate scent taints the air and I can’t help but picture Melanie. The artificial version was her signature stench—one so ingrained that it’s like she’s here, reeking of cheap, flowery cologne.
“I’ll take those.” Maxim snatches the roses from my grasp and tosses them onto the back seat. “Get in.”
His voice sinks into my bones, jolting them into submission. I slump onto the passenger’s seat, inhaling the air as shallowly as possible. I imagine my pores closing up in protest, refusing to absorb so much as a fucking ounce of him or the roses.
Breathe it in, baby, a woman’s voice taunts, sounding so close that I swear I can smell cigarettes. We might as well smell the same…
“We’re here.”
I flinch, noticing our surroundings. Minutes must have passed without me realizing. Here is a parking lot surrounded by a lush, green lawn and towering stone buildings. I only have movies to compare this scenery to—one of those shitty thrillers taking place on a college campus. The lead female would be a beautiful, normal blonde who grew up in a beautiful, normal family. Her tuition was paid for by a scholarship or some shit. Not by a man with seemingly more money than God.
She might be one of those bookish types too, who outsmarted the killer in the end and lived happily ever after. Such a good girl would never sell her soul to him in exchange for the kiss of his blade.
Sucks for her. To each his own.
“Your preliminary session is in that building over there,” Maxim explains, nodding to a castle-like structure directly ahead. Without warning, he reaches across me and flicks the glove compartment open. “H
ere—” A new, glossy brochure lands on my lap, along with a slip of paper. “The room number is on it. I’ll arrange for your transportation afterward.”
“I can get home on my own—”
“I’m not going to hurt you.” His stern glance makes me bite a retort back. He doesn’t sound like the ruthless dominant demanding a concession. He won’t hurt me.
Not intentionally, with whips or knives.
Supposedly not unintentionally, either.
“Fine.” I swallow hard and wrestle for the doorknob. As I scramble for the curb, I find myself croaking, “B-bye.”
His watchful gaze seers a hole through the back of my neck, tracking my every move across the deserted campus. At a second glance, this place holds little resemblance to the bustling college set from that movie. There are no students racing to their next class. No professors juggling books and supplies.
There is no one else at all.
Even inside the building, it’s too quiet. The only other inhabitant I find lurks on the third floor, in a room marked 101—the same printed on the slip I’m holding.
The room itself is a narrow classroom with a view of a small, picturesque grove. Unlike in my movie—only one desk dominates a space obviously meant for many more. Across from it is a larger desk that I assume belongs to the professor. A woman is sitting behind it now, her blond hair neatly swept back into a bun. Spotting me, she stands up, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. It’s her most striking feature, considering that a beige dress and loafers barely distinguish her from the plain walls around us.
“You must be Francesca. I’m Gemma.” She smiles, extending her hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I croak.
Her nails are manicured and pink, her skin flawless. No marks. No cuts. If anything, she resembles the bright-eyed protagonist from that fucking movie. Cast alongside her, I’d be the brunette slut who dies running from the killer in high heels.
“Shall we begin?” She nods to the empty desk, her hands folded primly over her lap. “This is more of a counseling session than anything. We’ll go over a basic review first, and then you’ll take the entrance exam. It’s mainly to see where you place—”
“You’re the professor?” The fact that she’s a woman doesn’t shock me. Knowing Maxim, I’m not surprised. But she’s young. I’d peg her as only a few years older than I am, if that.
She’s pretty too.
Not to mention that she doesn’t exude the same twisted, business-like aura of Lucius or anyone else in Maxim’s orbit.
As weird a term as it feels to use in this context, she’s…normal.
“Think of me more as a private tutor,” Gemma explains, her lips quirked in an amused grin. “Let’s get started.”
I perch myself on the smaller desk, placing the brochure in front of me. With all the gusto of some of my most eager high school teachers, Gemma directs me toward a set of review questions on the back page.
Ugh. Dread forms a knot in the pit of my stomach, tightening the longer I scan the assorted topics. Math. Science. Grammar. Each one triggers an unwelcome flashback to high school—the worst being the many fucking times a teacher would demand an answer to a question, but I’d be too damn tired to respond. Working the night shift wasn’t conducive to learning, go figure.
“Let’s start with some simple equations,” Gemma suggests. “Think you can try this one?” She scribbles a series of numbers on the blackboard.
“I…” My brain stalls. In the end, I spout off a random number.
“Not quite,” she says, tilting her head thoughtfully. “Let’s look at it from another angle.” She turns to the blackboard at the front of the room. Picking up a piece of chalk, she maps the problem out. “We can tackle it in pieces,” she offers. Strange. I don’t sense any mocking in her tone. Patiently, she guides me to the right answer and claps once I reach it. “Awesome! Now, let’s try another.”
A red fucking pen can seem more menacing than a bullwhip or a leather belt in the right circumstances. With my final score in question, Gemma wields her tool as expertly as Maxim does his, manipulating it across my scrawled answers.
The final tally could lead to praise or potential punishment. Which one do I crave more?
My nails bite at my wrist in anxious nibbles. I can’t decide on an answer.
“Relax,” Gemma says, glancing up. Her eyes widen, honing in on my mouth. “Are you all right?”
I’m biting my lip. I don’t realize that until warmth drips from my chin and seeps through the delicate collar of my dress. Absently, I swipe the substance from my neck. It’s red.
“I-I’m fine,” I say, rubbing my fingers along the side of my dress.
“Good, because I’m all done.” Gemma presents my marked-up booklet to me and beams. “You passed. Good work.”
“What?” My eyebrow shoots up into my hairline. “How?”
She laughs. “Don’t sell yourself short. I’m going to recommend maybe some remedial English, but mainly for grammar.”
“Maybe I should learn Russian while I’m at it,” I blurt out. “I already know the word for kitten, anyway.”
“Oh?” She inclines her head thoughtfully. “What is it? Though I’m afraid all I know is English.”
A sharp, pinching sensation stabs through my stomach. “Kotyonok. That’s the Russian term.”
She shrugs. “I’ve never heard it before—” Then she breaks off suddenly, rising to her feet. Ivory displaces the pink in her cheeks, making her resemble that horror movie heroine even more.
The “murderer,” I suspect, is standing in the doorway, casting a shadow that dampens the daylight streaming through the windows.
“I don’t mean to interrupt,” he says.
“I… We were just finishing up.” Gemma snatches up my booklet and hands it to me.
My stomach tenses, but I don’t know why. She’s startled—Maxim is certainly the type of man to inspire that reaction. I’m reminded of the first time I met him, how intimidating he seemed.
How intimidating he still is.
It’s the odd hint of recognition that I find in Gemma’s expression which confuses me. Obviously, they met before—he hired her. But there’s more to it…
She stiffens, unconsciously brushing a hand along her throat, as if remembering a particular touch. The suffocating clench of someone’s fingers.
His fingers.
Blinking, she shakes her head and forces a smile. “We’re all done here. I’ll do some research and then we’ll discuss potential majors, Francesca.” She’s still smiling, but her cheery tone falls flat. Forced. Glancing beyond me, she nods. “It was good to see you, Mr. Koslov.”
Maxim says nothing. Turning to face him, I’m not sure what I’ll find. He’s still wearing his suit from earlier, his hair slicked back instead of wild. Cold, his gaze is unreadable as ever. But…
I sense something lurking just beyond that stoic expression. Another revelation, maybe. Or another bombshell. About Melanie?
Or maybe this.
The curious reason why he brought me to be “tutored” by a woman he used to fuck.
Chapter Eleven
I’ve been in confined spaces with dangerous men before. Hell, thanks to Melanie, I’ve lived with them. Hid from them. Suffered at their hands.
Men who violated my life and my body in unforgivable ways—and I survived every last one. No matter what, I was always unbreakable, unshakable Frankie.
But this new monster…
He changed my name and invaded my soul. He turned me into a pet—a replacement. Simply one of a hundred.
“I could have enrolled on my own,” I say, breaking the silence for the first time since we left the campus. “Found my own teacher. My own school—”
“Was Gemma not satisfactory?” The hard note in his voice makes me grit my teeth. It’s defensive.
Around us, traffic flows smoothly, unaffected by the suffocating tension robbing the air from my lungs. For whatever
reason, he’s decided to drive himself again.
“She’s nice,” I admit, but that word has a hollow ring to it.
One he doesn’t miss.
“You’re wondering about my relationship with her.” His eyes are on the road as he masters the steering wheel, his jaw clenched.
“I think I know.” God, I sound so calm. Strange, when I feel anything but. My heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest, hammering against my throat in the process. “One of the women you referred to before?”
How did he put it? Women more beautiful than me.
Better than me.
“I was her client once, yes,” he admits.
I wince, startled by the pain ripping through my wrist. I’m doing it to myself: scratching so hard that I break the skin.
“She came to me four years ago,” he adds as if in afterthought. “But the position didn’t suit her. I saw her potential in other avenues.”
My brain takes that statement and runs with it, inferring what he doesn’t say. The beautiful, scholarly Gemma came to him as a hooker, but he—good old Maxim—saw her potential.
“She couldn’t do it?” I ask, staring at the streets racing past.
“No. She didn’t belong. She voided the contract.”
“Did…did you ask her why?” We’re nearing the house. I sense the car pick up speed as it lunges through stoplights as if he can’t wait to dump me there.
Still, he plays along.
“She needed money for her education. Her parents had declared bankruptcy, leaving her with a debt to pay.” He almost sounds genuine. Like someone with an ounce of pity to spare. “Now, she has tenure at the university and knows a variety of subjects.”
“You didn’t call her kotyonok, did you?” I didn’t mean to ask him that, but it’s too late. Deep down, I already know the answer anyway. “She didn’t know what it meant.” Maybe all this time, I thought that name was a universal term he applied to all of his pets. But not her, Gemma. He calls her by name.
