Throughout the day, I had to constantly remind myself that he wasn’t a good man. He was, in fact, a monster; one who had sent more souls to hell than my mind could ever fathom.
Feeling some type of attachment to a man like that was like playing with fire. I would most likely get burned.
It didn’t matter how his touch made me feel at the event last night; this wasn’t a game I wanted to play. The man was ridiculously attractive, and every time I picked a fight with him,I was only masking my own desires. It pained me to admit, but it was the truth.
He’d thought I was falling for the young musician’s charms at the event. But he was wrong. The musician had nothing to do with my cheeks turning red or the butterflies in my stomach.
That was all him.
Demyon.
Demyon Tarasov.
Unable to bear the confusion in my mind, I got up and sat on the edge of the bed. I lowered my head, burying my face in my palms. If I didn’t do something to restore my sanity, I would most likely lose it.
To fill my thoughts with something other than Demyon Tarasov, I rose to my feet and strolled out of the room. My feet were quiet against the marble floor as I made my way through the hallway.
Four of his men stood guard in this section of the mansion: two at both ends of the corridor. I’d come across a study on this floor while exploring the building earlier. I thought to myself that maybe there’d be something useful in there to help me pass the time.
Demyon had obviously taken away my phone, so at this point, I had no access to the internet for entertainment.
In no time, I reached the door, grabbed the handle, and pushed it open. My brows arched at the cozy interior; two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined both sides of the room. For a place that had been abandoned for God-knows-how-long, everything was still intact and meticulously arranged.
Directly across from the front door was a desk with a swivel chair on the other side. The mahogany table was adorned with piles of books stacked on top of one another. A sleek, rubberglobe sat on the polished wood, its spinning axis tilted at a subtle angle.
I walked further into the room, my eyes drinking in every detail I could spot. When I reached the desk, I wiped a finger over the surface of the table. It was clean. So clean.
Clearly, Demyon’s men had done a great job of cleaning the place up. My index finger tapped the globe, spinning it on its axis as I walked to the other side of the desk. There, I parted the velvet curtains, letting the golden glow of the setting sun stream in through the window.
I settled into the swivel chair, spinning it around a few times like a little girl trying to make herself happy. Leaning back in the comfy chair, I drummed my fingers on the armrest.
Not long after, I spotted what looked like an old photo album lying separately from the stack of books. Without hesitation, I edged forward and reached for it. When I flipped it open, my brows rose in astonishment. It was indeed a photo album.
I fed my eyes on the pictures of these strangers, the family that once lived in this very mansion. One of the little boys in a group photo looked an awful lot like Demyon, and I was almost certain it was him.
The kid had the same dark chestnut hair, the same icy gray eyes, and the same angular jaw as Demyon Tarasov. The only difference was that his boy had a very charming smile—a stark contrast to Demyon Tarasov today.
The more I flipped through the pages of this album, the more pictures of little Demyon I came across.
He was the spitting image of an older woman in the photos: one I assumed was his Mother. She was too beautiful to have birthed such a monster. And to be honest, even the kid in these photos seemed harmless, especially because in every photo, he was smiling from ear to ear.
I had no doubt that the kid was Demyon Tarasov. I just couldn’t understand how he had moved from that innocent little boy to the cold-hearted monster he was today.
What happened to that happy child?
As I turned the pages of the photo album, I realized the boy was growing older and gradually losing his innocence. The kid was growing into a teenager, and the older he got, the harder his expression became.
He lost the light in his eyes and his beautiful smile. The more I turned the pages, the more the boy became a ruthless young man.
I was so engrossed in the photo album that I didn’t realize how much time had passed until I heard his car pull up outside. I looked out the window and saw him stepping out of his black SUV, his men flanking him.
Something frozen thawed inside me. And although I claimed it had nothing to do with him, I knew I was only lying to myself. Watching him move from innocence to cruelty had done something to me that I wasn’t ready to admit.
Despite all the mysteries surrounding this man, one thing was certain: He wasn’t always a monster. Once upon a time, he was a normal kid with normal aspirations. But somewhere along the way, something went terribly wrong.
I closed the photo album and placed it back exactly where I’d found it before rising to my feet. Quietly, I stepped out of the study, shut the door behind me, and then strolled over to the living room downstairs.
From the top of the stairs, I watched him walk inside, rubbing his tired eyes with his fingers. When he raised his head and met my gaze, his brows drew together slightly, as if he sensed the shift in my countenance.
