After switching the TV off and brushing my teeth, I head for my room. As I yank my shirt off, her perfume hits me from where it clings to the material. While the indents from her grip are long smoothed away, they scar.
Scar the shirt. Scarme.
Her gratitude scars me. It felt like more than any previous time she’s said it. This time, it’s…lasting, a lingering, festering twinge in my chest that’s trying to define something else.
I stopped seeking gratitude a long time ago. Papa never showed me any, and the one time I longed for it was the first time seeing none of my actions would be good enough for him. He’d written me off—and I was only twelve.
Papa’s been having issues with his phone, so while he was in the shower, I snuck in and updated it. It was a simple fix; a few clicks, and he’s good to go. I plug it back into its charger before returning to my room and resuming my fix of a broken laptop.
Ten minutes later, Papa’s booming “Lev! Where the fuck are you?” comes ricocheting down the hallway before my door is slammed against the far wall.
I jerk away from the device, wishing I had time to hide it, except his rage lands on it. My technical skills have been slowly improving, but Papa thinks I need to be more like Dimitri, the Pakhan’s nephew.
“Did you touch my phone, you littlesoplyak?”Brat.
“Da.You mentioned having issues with the speed. It was a simple fix.” It might not be hitting a target—something I’m just learning—but it’s still useful. Papa should be thrilled.
Instead, he slams his hand against my door before jabbing a finger my way. “Neverevertouch my stuff again. You hear me, Lev?”
I blink, my hands twisted in the shirt Serafina was just clinging to. I bring it up to my nose, inhaling the lingering scent from when I carried her.
As a kid, I wanted Papa’s appreciation and praise. I’ve learned to not care.
But coming from Serafina…it’s tempting to care again.
By the time morning arrives, sleep clings like a cruel monster. Serafina isn’t wrong about me sleeping less here than at home, but the blame isn’t on her. It’s this fucking building.
Normally, I’m awake before she is, but today, she’s already up and seated on the couch, textbook on her lap, chewing on a pen as she reads.
She doesn’t look up right away. Her hair is in a messy bun on top of her head, tendrils framing her face. She nibbles on the end of her pen, my dick responding in ways it definitely shouldn’t be. Her tanks rests low, the curve of her breasts holding my attention for longer than my vows to Vanessa should allow. Last night, they were pressed against me, but I was focused on getting her to bed. Now…now, I need to avert my gaze.
My steps are silent, but the floor of this shitty dorm creaks, which draws her attention to the fact I’m not wearing a shirt.
“Normally, you’re not up yet,” I say in way of apologizing and explaining.
Her eyes flick from my chest to my face, cheeks reddening. “I struggled to stay in bed and figured since my first class isn’t ’til eleven, it’d be smart to get some studying done. Sorry.”
“It’s your dorm. Do what you want.” Her room. Her experience. I’m simply the shadow, meant to watch but not interfere.
“Thanks for carrying me to bed.” The red in her face deepens. “Guess your TV show idea worked. You could have left me here.”
“Could have, but I didn’t.” I go to move, only to be stopped once again by her standing. She stretches, her shirt pulling taut.
For fuck’s sake.
“Hungry?”
More than ever, yes, but not for food.
“I can eat.”
She tosses a smile over her shoulder before heading into her bedroom, where she remains for the better part of thirty minutes. In that time, I get dressed, check my email, and continue working on what I can for Dimitri, but not before scanning her textbook to see what she’s reading.
Zeno might love her, but he made Serafina sound shallow and bratty, which struck me as odd, because it wasn’t how my first interaction with her went.
I know better than anyone how easy it is to conceal one’s thoughts. It was necessary for surviving the Bratva during the last reign. Even Anastasia only knows so much of what’s in my head, because it’s easier to hide behind walls and my low comprehension of emotions and feelings than what’s right and wrong.
Serafina’s fake brat persona to her brother is simply that. She dislikes how her birth changed the lives of Zeno and their mother, but clearly, no one’s asked her about it. About how it felt learning about a half-sister and an entire other bloodline. How it feels to be banished by a man who didn’t see her as his own—when blood actually means shit all in the end. Through all of that, Serafina was meant to beokay, and everyone assumed she was.
