Page 16 of Beautiful Monster

Kira slides off the bed and crosses to the dresser, pulling open the top drawer. Her fingers trail over silk and cotton, herexpression unreadable. She selects something and retreats to the bathroom without another word.

I should leave. Return to my room, to my vodka, to the solitude I've grown accustomed to. Instead, I find myself standing at the window, gazing out at the Brooklyn skyline beyond the bulletproof glass. The night presses against the panes like an unwelcome visitor, dark and insistent.

The bathroom door opens. Kira emerges wearing a simple white nightgown that falls to her knees. The material is modest enough, but the sight of her in it tightens something in my chest.

"Will I be allowed to leave?" she asks suddenly. "This house, I mean."

I turn from the window. "Not alone."

"So I am a prisoner."

"You're protected," I correct her. "There's a difference."

"Not from where I'm standing." Her bare feet make no sound as she approaches, stopping just out of reach. The nightgown shifts around her legs with each movement, a whisper of fabric against skin.

"Do you have any idea what the Novikov family would do to you?" I ask, voice dangerously soft. “Do you understand how much they despise your father?”

She lifts her chin, but I catch the way her throat works as she swallows. "I have some idea."

"Some idea isn't enough." I step closer, closing the distance between us until I can smell the jasmine still clinging to her skin. "They'd take you. Use you. Break you in ways that would make death seem merciful. And they'd make sure your father watched every moment of it."

A shiver passes through her, but she holds her ground. "Is that what happened to Alina?"

The question lands like a physical blow. My vision narrows and darkens at the edges. I can feel my control slipping, the beast inside me rattling its cage.

"Who told you about her?" My voice has dropped to something barely human.

Kira takes a small step back, but her eyes never leave mine. "My father mentioned her. Your first wife."

The rage builds in my chest, a familiar fire that threatens to consume everything in its path. I force myself to breathe, to count. One. Two. Three. But the numbers blur together, meaningless against the memories clawing their way to the surface.

"He had no right." The words scrape against my throat like broken glass.

"He was trying to prepare me for what I was walking into." Her voice remains steady despite the tremor I can see in her hands. "He said she was killed because of?—"

"Enough." The word cracks like a whip through the room. I turn away from her, my fists clenching at my sides. The tattoos on my arms seem to burn, each mark a reminder of blood spilled, debts paid, vengeance served cold.

Behind me, I hear her soft intake of breath. When I glance back, she's pressed one hand to her throat, and I realize how I must look—like the monster she expected after all.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I shouldn't have?—"

"No." I force my hands to unclench and my breathing to even out. "You shouldn't have."

The silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken truths and half-buried ghosts. I can feel Alina's memory hovering at the edges of the room like smoke, choking the air from my lungs.

"Alina was nothing like you," I say finally, the admission torn from somewhere deep inside me. “She was quiet, obedient, and always knew her place.”

The words taste bitter on my tongue––lies dressed up as truth. Alina was anything but obedient. She always asked questions about my work, family, and scars. She'd traced the tattoos on my chest with curious fingers, demanding stories I was too proud to tell.

Kira's eyes flash with something that might be hurt or anger. "How convenient for you."

"It was." Another lie, but it's easier than admitting the truth. "She understood what was expected of her."

"And what's expected of me?" Kira's chin lifts again, that stubborn tilt that's already becoming familiar.

I study her face, memorizing the way her nostrils flare when she's angry, the way her blue eyes darken to storm gray. "I haven't decided yet."

"Well, let me make something clear." She takes a step toward me, bare feet silent on the hardwood. "

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