Page 2 of Velvet Chains
“Well, devochka, if Victor is dead,” she drawls, her breath hot against my face, “then we’ll have no use for you here, will we?”
I close my eyes, a single tear escaping down my cheek. I know exactly what she means. If Victor is gone, I’m as good as dead. Just another loose end to be tied up in their twisted world.
She’ll kill me.
Back in my room, I collapse onto the bed, sobs wracking my body.
Hot tears stream down my face, soaking into the silk pillowcase.
I curl in on myself, hugging my knees to my chest as if I can somehow hold myself together.
Is this my fault? Am I cursed to lose everyone I care about? First Mom, now Victor…
The thought of him sends a fresh wave of pain through my chest.
I never wanted this, never asked to be a part of his dangerous world. But somehow, he’d become a twisted constant in my life, his presence equal parts terrifying and thrilling.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but I can’t escape the onslaught of memories. Victor’s face, his touch, his scent—they assault me, relentless and merciless.
I remember the rough drag of his calloused hands on my skin, the way they could be both demanding and surprisingly gentle. The smell of him—leather, gun oil, and a hint of woodsy cologne—clings to my pillows, taunting me with what I’ve lost.
But it’s his eyes that haunt me the most. Those stormy gray eyes that could strip me bare with a single glance, that seemed to see straight into my battered soul.
A violent shudder wracks my body, and I dig my nails into my arms until I feel the sting of broken skin.
What will become of me now?
Without Victor’s protection, I’m nothing more than a pawn in their deadly game, an insignificant piece on a chessboard of power and deceit.
Expendable. Disposable. A mere casualty in the grand scheme of things.
Fuck, what am I supposed to do?
I’ve never felt so alone, so utterly hopeless. The future stretches out before me, bleak and uncertain, a vast wasteland of shattered dreams and broken promises. The weight of my despair presses down on me, suffocating me with its intensity.
Thud.
Thud.
Someone is knocking on the door.
I freeze, my breath catching in my throat.
The sound is so soft, barely audible over the pounding of my heart, but in the stillness of the room, it’s deafening.
Thud.
Thud.
There it is again, a little louder this time. I hastily wipe my tears with the back of my hand, scrambling to sit up on the bed. My mind races, trying to compose myself, to hide any evidence of my breakdown.
“Who… who’s there?”
Victor?
Before I can even stand, the door swings open, and a trio of maids glide into the room, their faces impassive masks of professionalism. They move with a synchronized grace, each step perfectly timed, like dancers in a well-rehearsed ballet.
And then I see it, draped across their arms—a gown of pure white, delicate lace, and shimmering satin catching the light as they move.
