Page 91 of Lethal Torture
“We were. We are.” Darya gives me a wry smile. “And if I’d known even half of what Abby had already been through, I’d have been honest from the start. But back then, I couldn’t imagine how she’d ever understand my life. Abby isn’t from our world. Or that is, she wasn’t raised in it, like you and me.” There’s something immensely comforting about heryou and me, an assumed intimacy that adds to the sense of inherent safety I’ve felt since I stepped out of the limousine.
I don’t have to hide here,I think with a sudden jolt of relief. I know something of what Darya endured while her family home was occupied by Vilnus Orlov. I know that she, too, has touched the darkness I grew up among, and that she survived it.That’s why I came here,I realize suddenly. I need to be around people who know what my life is, who understand it from the inside. And for all that Darya is now living within the fortress Roman has built, I know for a fact that she understands what it is to be out in the cold, to be alone and afraid.
My heart gives an odd lurch.I feel at home here. With her.
“Saying that, it did take Abby a long time to be comfortable in our world.” Darya kicks off her shoes and tucks her legs up beneath her in the wicker chair. “She was determined to stay away from anything to do with organized crime, which is not the easiest when you’re dating someone like Dimitry.” She stops and looks up at me apologetically. “Look at me, banging on about my life. Be warned: this is what happens when you spend your days with small children and teenagers. You get starved of conversation. I’m sorry.”
I laugh. “Try spending your days with employees, security guys, and business associates. I understand, believe me. And besides, you actually have no idea how much what you’re saying is relevant right now. So please.” I raise my glass to her. “Continue, and consider me honestly fascinated.”
“Fine.” Darya tilts her glass at me. “But I’m getting a pitcher of this, and some nibbles, and don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I stand up as she goes back into the kitchen and lean on the stone terrace, staring out over the valley. Despite it being winter, the Spanish sun is warming to the bone, casting a high, bright light that is almost dazzling. The air is scented with winter jasmine and orange, and from somewhere in the distance, I can hear the faint sounds of flamenco.Probably from the fiesta Ofelia mentioned.
Peace steals over me, slow and unexpected, and so welcome I almost slump with relief. Suddenly my fitted dress feels confining. “I’m just going to change,” I call to Darya, and she shouts back directions to my room.
I love everything about being here, I think as I find my way upstairs to a wide room with a tiled floor and doors that open onto a small balcony. I love the informality. The quiet.
I love not having to hide.
For a sudden, aching moment, I wish Luke was here. I can imagine him leaning against the terrace with a beer, talking with Roman and Dimitry.He would be at home somewhere like this,I think wistfully.
Then I put the thought away again. Thoughts like those are fucking dangerous, and the exact reason I should probably never have slept with Luke in the first place.
I change into silk lounging pajamas that one of my dancers made for me ages ago, and which I’ve never had a chance to wear, and head back down to the terrace.
“Oh my goodness,” Darya says as I emerge, her eyes widening. “Who makes those? I need like fifty pairs, immediately.”
I tell her about my dancers, how they all have dreams of their own that I enjoy helping become reality. As I talk, I find myself unbending in response to Darya’s questions, which are both intelligent and perceptive.
“How wonderful,” she sighs when I finish telling her about the dancer who made my outfit. “And absolutely inspiring.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. “I almost never get a chance to talk about it all.” I shrug. “There’s actually not a lot of time in my life for talking at all, if I’m honest.”
Not to mention nobody to talk to. Not like this.
“Well, then.” Darya smiles softly. “Here’s to doing a lot more of it.” She touches my glass with her own. “Why don’t you start by telling me about Luke?”
I almost choke on my drink. “Luke?”
“Well.” She raises her eyebrows at me. “If I didn’t have questions before, I certainly do afterthatreaction.”
I turn my glass uneasily.
Where would I even start?
Darya might have spent time in the darkness, but that’s a far cry from my Viewing Gallery.
I realize she’s watching me and color faintly. “I’m not sure I know how to—where to start.” I look away from her, trying to find the words. “Some parts of my life are difficult to explain,” I say quietly. “Even to those in our world.”
In the silence that follows, loneliness slips over me, the impenetrable cloak of solitude that fell the day Sophie left, and which I’ve worn ever since.
I turn back to find Darya still watching me. She studies me for a moment, then gives a small nod. “I know something about how that feels.”
She turns in her chair and slips her dress off one shoulder, exposing a tattoo. It looks like a bird of some kind, in a cage with an open door. “Touch it,” she says.
I touch her skin tentatively, unsure what point she’s trying to make.
Then I realize the bars of the cage aren’t made by ink. They’re scar tissue, raised and hard.
