The Villainess Just Wants to Study

Chapter 22 ~ Burns and Bruises

WARNING: This chapter contains information about abuse and/or violence which may be triggering to survivors.

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Viscountess Voretti had no intention of helping Dylan. In fact, she practically dragged her down the hallway by her neck to a private drawing room. 

It was hard for Dylan—the verbal and sometimes physical abuse. There were times when Dylan felt ripped away from her own self and sanity. The memories she found most enjoyable began to fade with time, but the things she tried the hardest to forget often remained alive. 

She knew that were some things in the world you couldn't control, including the actions and thoughts of others. You could manipulate and sway them, but you couldn't control them. She couldn't take away the hate others felt for her. 

The Viscountess spit at Dylan's face and snarled, "A nasty bitch who doesn't even know where she came from!"

"Let go of me!" Dylan yelled, yanking her neck and hair free from the lady's grip. "You really are out of your mind, aren't you?"

The Viscountess blocked the door. "Tell me," she demanded, "who your filthy mother is and why the Duke cheated on Patrizia! Go on! What kind of tricks did your beggar mother use to catch the Duke's eye?"

"Why should I bother explaining myself," Dylan said with a cocky grin, "to a nasty old hag who can't even keep her hands to herself?"

A flush of anger crept up the Viscountess' neck and into her face. "Ha, how dare you?" she challenged, raising her hand to hit Dylan.

Thud. Dylan drove her foot hard into the Viscountess' shin.

"Ack!" she yelled, doubling over in pain.

"Oh my," Dylan chuckled, playing coy. "Well you are an old hag, so falling over is expected, right?"

"Just who the hell do you think you are?" she said through gritted teeth, glancing up at Dylan with angry eyes. "You're disgusting," she barked, "you filthy wench, you—"

"Yes." Dylan looked down at her with cold eyes. "I'm disgusting," she said, "and I came from lowly origins. But right now—which one of us is standing on top?"

The Viscountess stiffened as Dylan stepped closer and placed a gentle hand on each of her shoulders. Dylan's eyes were smiling expectantly, her lip rose and remained lifted in a sinister smirk. 

"If you hit me," she said with a lethal cold, "I'll hit you twice as hard." 

The Viscountess suddenly grew pale as Dylan removed her hands and walked to the door. 

"You don't know me enough to have a problem with me, Viscountess." Dylan paused with her hand on the doorknob, looking over a shoulder. "You don't know me at all. My blood, my story, my background—are all things you have no right to ask for."

Rage. Anger. Resentment. Dylan had no idea what to do with these emotions. Her face contorted with rage, and her eyes darkened. They were all the same—cruel and judgmental people. Tears burned her eyes and her lower lip trembled. She hated them. She wanted them all dead.

"Lady Dylan?" someone called from the end of the hall.

Dylan glanced up. "Baroness Morsher," she said, wiping her tears of frustration away with her sleeves. "My apologies, I—"

"Poor thing," she said, frowning. "Was she mean to you? The Viscountess?"

'Ha, you owe me, Laikin.'