Page 26 of Beautiful Monster

Kira

Iwake to sunlight streaking across unfamiliar sheets, their softness whispering against my skin as I stretch. For a moment, I'm disoriented, my body aching in places I've never felt before. Then the memories flood back—Mikhail's hands gripping my hips, lips trailing fire across my skin, pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. Heat rushes to my face as I remember the things I did and the sounds I made.

Mikhail.

I reach across the vast expanse of his bed, finding only cold sheets where his body should be. The impression of his head remains on the pillow beside mine, but he's gone. I sit up, wincing at the tender soreness between my thighs, and pull the silk sheet around my naked body.

"Mikhail?" My voice sounds small in the cavernous bedroom.

No answer comes. Morning light filters through partially drawn curtains,

and I notice his clothes from last night are gone. Even his watch, which I remember him placing on the nightstand with deliberate care, has vanished without a trace.

I slip from the bed, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet as I search for my discarded nightgown. The silk is wrinkled andslightly torn at the shoulder—evidence of Mikhail's urgency and hunger. My cheeks burn at the memory of how he'd pushed the fabric aside, his mouth hot against my throat.

The house feels hollow as I make my way downstairs, that familiar echo of emptiness bouncing off marble floors. In the kitchen, I find coffee already made but cold, as if he'd prepared it hours ago. A business card lies beside the pot—his driver's number, nothing more. No note. No explanation.

The days blur together after that. I catch glimpses of Mikhail leaving before dawn while I'm still tangled in sheets that smell like him. When he returns, always after midnight, I pretend to sleep. I listen to the shower running and feel the mattress dip as he slides in beside me, but he doesn't reach for me. Doesn't speak.

By the fourth morning, doubt gnaws at my chest like a living thing. I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, searching for some flaw that might explain his sudden distance. My mother's voice echoes in my mind, sharp and knowing:"Men take what they want, Kira. Once they've had their fill, you become invisible."

But he's my husband. Isn't he supposed to want more than just one night?

I wrap my arms around myself, the marble countertop cold against my palms as I lean forward. The woman in the mirror looks fragile, breakable—everything I swore I'd never become. My lips are still slightly swollen from that night, a reminder that refuses to fade even as he distances himself from what we shared.

The silence in this house now has weight, pressing down on my shoulders like a shroud. I find myself listening for the rumble of his voice on phone calls, straining to catch fragments of conversation that might explain where he goes and what consumes his thoughts. But even when I hear him speaking inrapid Russian to his men, his tone carries a coldness that wasn't there before.

I occupy myself with books, with sketching, with anything that might quiet the questions circling in my mind like vultures. But every page I turn reminds me of how his fingers traced my spine––every pencil stroke echoes the way he'd mapped my body with reverent touches. The contradiction tears at me. How can someone make love to you like you're precious, then treat you like you're invisible?

On the fifth evening, I position myself in the living room where he can't avoid me. The grandfather clock ticks away the minutes past midnight when I finally hear his key in the lock. My heart hammers against my ribs as his footsteps approach, leather soles clicking against marble with military precision.

He appears in the doorway, still wearing his suit, tie loosened around his throat. Those piercing blue eyes find mine across the room, and for a moment, something flickers there—want, regret, I can't tell which. His jaw tightens as he takes in my silk robe, the way I'm curled in his favorite chair like I belong there.

"You should be sleeping, Kira." His voice carries that familiar Russian lilt, but it's edged with something sharp, almost warning.

I don't move from the leather chair, even though every instinct screams at me to flee from the coldness in his tone. Instead, I pull my robe tighter and meet his gaze directly.

"I've been sleeping alone for days. You may be there, but you might as well sleep in the other room." The words slip out before I can stop them, carrying more vulnerability than I intended. "I thought maybe we could talk."

Something dangerous flashes across his features, gone so quickly I almost miss it. He moves deeper into the room but maintains his distance—a predator aware of his own capacity for destruction.

"About what?" He pours himself three fingers of vodka from the crystal decanter, the liquid catching the lamplight like liquid silver. His movements are controlled and deliberate, but I see a slight tremor in his hand.

"About why you disappeared." I stand slowly, my bare feet silent on the Persian rug. "About why you won't even look at me anymore."

He downs the vodka in one smooth motion, his throat working as he swallows. When he finally turns to face me fully, his eyes are arctic. "You got what you wanted, didn't you? A proper wedding night. Consider your wifely duties fulfilled."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I actually take a step back, my hand flying to my throat where Mikhail had left marks with his mouth just days ago. "Is that what you think it was? Duty?"

A muscle ticks in his jaw. "What else would it be?"

"I don't know—maybe something real? Maybe—" I stop myself before I can say the word that's been haunting me. Love. Because that's what it felt like when he whispered my name, when he held me like I might break, and when he looked at me like I was the only thing in his world that mattered.

"Real." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Nothing about this marriage is real,kisa. You'd do well to remember that."

The endearment sounds like mockery now, and I flinch as if he'd struck me. "Then why did you—why were you so?—"

"Gentle?" His smile is sharp enough to cut. "Did you prefer I treat you like the business transaction you are?"

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