The Marriage (Darkest Lies Trilogy Book 3)

by Bethany-Kris

  It would have been so much easier to just switch off.

  Karine started to want to.

  Sylvia knocked on her door the next morning, but entered without waiting for an answer.

  Karine was still in bed and barely even glanced at the woman. She didn’t have the energy or interest to, and it wouldn’t make a difference. The therapist would still see the dark circles under Karine’s eyes and the bloodshot, dead stare stained with dried tears.

  What a way to spend a night.

  Fuck him for doing that to her.

  “Looks like you didn’t eat anything last night,” Sylvia noted, her tone grating on Karine’s nerves for no particular reason. “Would you like some breakfast now? We have a large menu, and you’re welcome to mix or match anything you like. Our chef can prepare whatever you want, and you can take it wherever you’d like within your room, the halls, or the property.”

  Karine lay still, with her back turned to the woman just like she had ended their conversation the night before.

  She didn’t want to eat. She had no appetite. She missed Masha. And she seriously doubted any of that would mean anything to Sylvia.

  “How about some pancakes? Are you a tea or a coffee person?” Sylvia continued.

  “I’m a person who wants to be left the fuck alone,” she hissed in response.

  “I understand that you’re frustrated and angry with your husband. I was hoping we could talk about it? A conversation could change your whole perspective, Karine.”

  Karine wanted to scream.

  Or laugh.

  Hell, maybe both.

  Why would she want to talk to this stranger? It took her so much to open up to Michelle, and even that felt like a waste now. Especially when Michelle’s name had been brought up as a facilitator to her committal here.

  She would probably never see Michelle again, but that might be for the best.

  “How about meditating? I heard you have a special interest in meditation. It’s actually how I like to spend my mornings, if I can. Would you join me?”

  Enough.

  Karine rolled over fast, and sprung up in bed, dragging the dense, heavy rubber-like sheet off her with a clenched fist. “I get you’re doing your job,” she told the woman, not hiding the venom in her voice at all, “but I want to be very clear with you. I don’t need your help. I won’t use your help. Or anybody else’s in this fucking place. Leave me alone.”

  Sylvia’s smile dropped and for a split second, Karine thought the woman might lose her kind facade. No such luck. She breathed in deeply instead, suggesting quietly, “Maybe talking to your husband might help.”

  Jesus Christ.

  No.

  Definitely not.

  Karine rolled her eyes, and fell back in bed again.

  What else needed said?

  *

  The bitch wouldn’t give up.

  By the end of the day, Sylvia was back with a phone she tried to hand over to Karine. Except she still hadn’t moved from her spot on the bed, and even the buzz of her husband’s voice on the other end of the phone couldn’t entice her.

  “Roman would really like to speak to you,” she whispered to Karine.

  Oh, did he?

  All the curtains in the room were closed, leaving Karine cloaked in darkness. Just the way she always liked it. Except when they were in the hotel suite—she’d loved the way the sunshine poured in through the glass walls, spilling over her body in the mornings.

  Karine rejoiced in daylight then, but it didn’t last long.

  “She’s fine—surface-wise, I mean. She just hasn’t eaten since she got here, and she’s refusing to speak to anyone, leave her room, or engage in anything else.”

  Sylvia spoke with a very matter-of-fact tone into the phone. All over again, Karine could feel her cheeks burning with anger. Flushed hot and red. Once again, she was being treated like a naughty child in this place.

  They’d report her bad behavior back to her husband, and what? The idea of him knowing she wouldn’t eat or talk might shame her into doing it?

  That was a joke.

  What would Roman do about it?

  He was fucking coward, too.

  “Karine, please talk to him, and you’ll feel better, I promise. Even if you’re still mad, you will feel better in a way. He’s been waiting all morning to speak with you.”

  While Sylvia pleaded, Karine simply wedged both her arms between her thighs, bringing her knees up in the fetal position. This wasn’t a conversation. Only one person was speaking, after all.

  “She isn’t giving me anything—yeah, I’m sorry Mr. Avdonin,” Sylvia murmured, her voice distant a bit like she had turned away.

  Karine blinked at the wall. She didn’t care what they thought of her. They could write as many reports as they wanted, come up with plans for therapy if it satisfied them—but she wasn’t going to comply.

  How far would they go when she continued to refuse? Restrain her if she got violent? Force medication down her throat?

  She couldn’t care less.

  “He wants to know when he can call you next, if you don’t want to speak with him now,” Sylvia said.

  Karine sighed, saying softly, “He can call when I’m dead.”

  That’s not what the therapist told her husband.

  “I suggest we call you when she’s feeling more up to it, Mr. Avdonin,” Sylvia whispered into the phone before ending the call.

  Karine’s throat felt dry, but she wasn’t interested in drinking anything. That meant moving. Breathing more. Being. The only thing going through her mind was how close she had been to freedom, that he’d dare to let her live, and now it was all over.

  And it was all Roman’s fault.

  “Karine, we’re trying to help you here. I hope you come to that realization sooner rather than later.” Sylvia’s happy-go-lucky demeanor hardened a bit when she added, “For your own sake.”

  “Who do I have to call to wipe my ass?” Karine hissed in response.

  *

  She walked out to the Zen garden two days later.

  Several more attempts had been made by Sylvia—and other members of staff—to try and bring Karine out of her shell. None of it worked, and she only did what she wanted when she wanted to do it. She refused all contact and conversation, too stubborn to give everyone else what they wanted when she didn’t have anything at all.

  Apparently, Roman had called several times since that first phone call. She’d refused to speak to him, too.

  At the garden, she stood over a small pond, watching the colorful fish swimming around. The scaly bastards had the right idea. Short life span. Their only purpose in life was to feed, reproduce, and then die. A simpler cycle.

  There wasn’t emotion involved.

  Pain was primal.

  “Drink this.”

  Karine sighed at the new voice behind her. It was Sylvia.

  Surprise.

  Not.

  She was the only one who continued to make normal conversation with her at this point. Everyone else had given up and were trying to either force her, threaten her, or bribe her into submission. To no avail.

  Karine looked at the cup the woman passed to her hand, and rolled her eyes. “Probably not—who knows what you’ve put in there?”

  “It’s just chamomile tea, don’t worry. We don’t believe in drugging our residents without explaining we’re doing it here. Besides, we’ve been given a history of your past experiences by your husband. Although, he’s admitted he may not have the full picture himself. Anyway, the point is, we’re not going to play around with drugs. You’ve been told you won’t be forced into anything, and you won’t.”

  “Except talking, apparently.”

  And living.

  Karine continued staring at the fish. Her stomach rumbled, and she worried Sylvia would hear. She’d eaten nothing but some dry toast and crackers since her arrival with water to wash it down and keep her stomach from eating itself. It was one thing to
be hungry, but it was another to feel like she couldn’t actually eat. She was sure if she put anything of substance into her stomach, she’d throw up.

  Even the toast and crackers were a lot.

  Too much, really.

  Karine refused to speak, staring down at her reflection in the mug of tea. She knew what these people wanted from her—the same thing her father had demanded of her every single of her life.

  To obey.

  Once Katina died, he couldn’t bear to look at Karine’s face anymore. It had only added to the insecurity she already felt whenever she stared into a mirror. She wondered if he wished their places were reversed. If the supposedly unknown murderer had killed Karine instead of his beloved older daughter.

  Most of the time Karine wished for exactly that, too.

  Katina was the one who deserved to live a full life and didn’t, while Karine knew she wasn’t capable of having one in the first place. The universe seemed determined to prove it, too.

  “This will help calm you, it might even increase your appetite,” Sylvia continued.

  Karine felt herself snapping.

  Every last nerve burned.

  She didn’t want Sylvia to be nice to her.

  She didn’t want sympathy or pity.

  She just wanted to be left alone.

  Before she could control her actions, she threw the mug of chamomile tea to the ground. It crashed, smashing into pieces and spilling over the cobblestones, startling Karine.

  She hadn’t meant to do that.

  But God, she’d wanted to.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she cried.

  Sylvia looked upset, coming towards Karine with open arms like she might hug her.

  Karine was already backing away.

  “Look what you made me do—just leave me alone! Why won’t you leave me alone?”

  She cried the whole way back to her room, and slammed the door behind her when she was finally alone again.

  Funny.

  Karine thought she’d run out of tears.

  SEVEN

  Roman could barely fucking stand it—returning to New York City as a married man, but alone.

  Leaving Karine at the new facility, seeing the pain and anger in her face—when she refused to even look at him—it broke him. He’d known the second he walked out of there that it was the wrong choice. It was also the only one he had, and it was already too late. What was done was done.

  He had no one to blame.

  This was all on Roman.

  That’s what made it worse.

  Marky met him at the airport with a car, and Roman’s hand shook like a junkie’s would when he lit his cigarette. He’d needed to stay a couple extra days in Vegas just to finalize a few minor details that would keep Karine safe, and erase any of his footprints that he might have left behind that could lead to her, but then he was gone.

  And broken.

  “You all right, man?” Marky asked, taking the airport’s exit ramp without a glance over his shoulder as he merged. Someone behind them blew their horn, but his friend only laughed and hit the gas harder.

  Roman pasted himself to the passenger side door, glaring out the window at the familiar streets that didn’t quite feel like home. He’d never been so unhappy to see New York. “No. I feel like someone’s broken every bone in my body. I don’t think I’ve physically hurt this much before.”

  He felt hungover, and exhausted, even though he hadn’t touched a drink in more than twenty-four hours. There wasn’t a drug in his system to do the deed, either. Shame, really, because getting high or drunk might have made this slightly more bearable.

  Roman was desperate for numbness. That was the terrifying truth. He craved that blissed, unfeeling place he had spent most of his teenage and adult life more than he ever had since he put that shit down.

  Marky glanced at him from the driver’s side, taking in the way Roman had awkwardly slumped against the door.

  “Come on, man, you did what you had to do. There was no other way,” Marky tried.

  Roman scoffed.

  No.

  That just wasn’t true.

  “I can think of a hundred things I could have done differently. For starters, I shouldn’t have left Karine there. I should have just taken her out of the country like I wanted to at first.”

  But they’d needed a little more time for a decent passport forgery that would pass in some of the world’s largest international airports. He just couldn’t make it work, not without risking getting flagged somewhere overseas—because they sure as shit wouldn’t have stayed on this continent.

  Marky shook his head. “And what, leave your father here—your ma? I mean, fuck, Demyan will handle business regardless, but that doesn’t mean it’ll end well.”

  Roman didn’t reply.

  His friend didn’t really need him to.

  “That’s not gonna happen, Roman. You wouldn’t be able to stay away from Brighton Beach if there’s a war happening anywhere near it. You know what your duties to your family are.”

  “Karine is fucking family now, too,” Roman snapped back.

  He didn’t mean to be a prick.

  Shit was just ... bad.

  Everything was bad for Roman right then—like his entire world had somehow flipped over on its top and no matter what he did, he couldn’t feel right. Everything was wrong. Bad all over.

  Marky clutched the steering wheel hard. Maybe he’d already run out of things to say, or the sight of Roman was enough to tell the man he wasn’t going to get anywhere.

  “What have I done.”

  He wasn’t actually looking for an answer.

  It wasn’t a question.

  He already knew what he’d done.

  Roman rubbed a hand over his face, feeling his fingers tremble again; his nerves were totally fucking shot.

  It was impossible to ignore the what ifs constantly dancing around in his mind. What if Karine never spoke to him again? What happened if she became unmanageable at the facility in Vegas, and he wasn’t there to help her?

  “You’ve done what you needed to do. You’re the only one who has done anything for that girl. You took her out of Chicago. You rescued her from a marriage to that motherfucker. You’re keeping her safe. You have literally given her a life, man.”

  Roman had his face covered with his hand, and he finally took it away so he could look at his friend. A cigarette had burnt down quickly between his fingers, but he’d forgotten about smoking it.

  “Do you think it looks that way from her perspective—behind those walls? So what if I showed her what life looks like, I also took it away.”

  He sank into the seat and closed his eyes.

  Only her beautiful face floated up.

  She would be the only thing on his mind.

  *

  The person he didn’t think would be waiting for him the moment he walked into his parent’s home was Masha.

  She stood at the front doors with her arms by her side, her eyes piercingly dark and sharp on him. Almost like she’d been standing there for days—weeks, even. However long it took. Just waiting for him or Karine to show up.

  Marky had dropped him off and drove away. Roman dragged his feet all the way across the driveway and up the steps to the entrance of his parents’ house.

  “Ma brought you back from Vermont, then?” he asked.

  Not that he’d had any expectations on the topic—Masha had served a purpose at first with him and Karine, but the second she became his wife ... well, it was all on Roman. He’d never given Masha, or what to do with her, a second thought.

  Masha said nothing for several moments, just stared before she let out a heavy exhale. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen her standing this straight. Shoulders high, back like a rod. The woman wanted something, and guessing by the way she stared at him, she’d found the man with the answers.

  Great.

  “Where is she? What have you done with her?” she hissed.


  Roman had already slipped his wedding ring off. He wanted to be in control of the narrative, of what people knew or didn’t, and decided he would tell those who needed to know about the marriage. He hadn’t yet decided if Masha was going to be one of those people.

  Nor would he apologize for it.

  “All you need to know right now is that she is safe, and I would never hurt her.”

  A cry, one a stray cat might make cold and alone in a dank alley, escaped her lips. He almost reached for her—to steady her.

  However, Masha didn’t need his help, and he knew it. She was capable of looking after herself. She had spent all her life striving to keep herself alive, and see the next day. The woman didn’t need him offering her any kind of comfort.

  “I don’t know anything,” Masha practically spat at him. “All I know is you manipulated her and took her away from that place. She was happy at the lodge. Safe there. She liked the people. She was getting better.”

  Masha’s voice became sharper with every word that left her mouth, to the point Roman found himself wincing as her voice echoed in the entry hall.

  Roman clenched his hands into fists. He was ready to punch the wall again, but his knuckles still hurt from the first round in Vegas. He hadn’t done anything to help his hand recover, even ignoring the one swollen knuckle that was probably broken. Instead, he just left it to heal as he usually did with all his physical injuries.

  Nothing new.

  “You don’t know everything, Masha. She was safe there, yes, but she wouldn’t have been for very long. Nothing is forever—not right now, anyway.”

  “There is nothing you can tell me that will shock me.”

  “I’m sure your life has been difficult, but I don’t have the fucking time to exchange stories.”

  “I’m not looking for a story.” Masha’s eyes grew harder. She wasn’t pleading. Neither did she sound subservient anymore. She glared openly at him, letting him see exactly how she felt about what he’d done. Even though she didn’t know the full details, Roman still felt the shame as if she did.