The Darkness Within

Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

The following day, at 2 in the afternoon, Sergei surprises me by stepping into my room. I'm sitting on the floor, my back to the sofa in front of the fireplace, cuddling Leo. And, for some reason, I've felt the occasional flicker of contentedness pass through me since I took up the position right after breakfast.

The only thing that would make it better is if I had a book—oh, and my fucking freedom—but I don't want to goad Sergei by complaining. As of right now, his pattern is giving me what I want when I give him something he wants. So far, that's uncomfortable, but manageable. Mainly because his biggest desire is an honest, open dialogue between us. He's smart enough to know that's a fundamental foundation to any successful relationship.

His eyes find me, and he stares at me with both flickers of curiosity and surprise. "That's...adorable."

I frown. "No need to say adorable in the same tone you would say AIDS."

But, I get where his confusion is coming from. When people look at me, the first word in mind is never cute or adorable. More often the words are more along the lines of bored, unfeeling, and couldn't give less of a shit if the world was on fire. So, seeing me in such a...unusual position is strange.

He gives his head a shake. "Come. I've discovered interesting things following an in-depth background check on you."

I stiffen. I don't have any particular skeletons in my closet that aren't wholly internal, but I took care to clear the internet of my face, going so far as to deleting pictures and videos of a young me from my parents accounts—which didn't get deactivated even after their deaths. I made sure those are inaccessible because I don't want any personal details of me—even hints of what my childhood looked like—available for public viewing.

"You're still on that?" I respond airily.

His lips quirk slightly. "Leave the cat, come with me."

Despite his mild tone I get the sense this is the last time he'll ask nicely, so I set Leo on the sofa without more prompting, ignoring his noise of protest, and walk over to Sergei.

He looks me up and down, appreciation for the body-hugging jeans and skin-tight sweater. He assembled quite a wardrobe—even the least revealing articles of clothing are always showing off my body.

"Were you more...emotional, when you were a child?" Sergei asks me.

Deciding to play along since it'll be good to know where he's going with this, I answer, "Not to my knowledge."

He slants me an assessing glance. "But you were good at blending even then, no?"

I know by blending he means acting normal. Mimicking and mirroring the behavior of others around you to ensure nobody has reason to suspect you of being anything other than society's ever-evolving standard of normal.

"Yes, I was." That's why I even joined the debate team my junior year of college, because most students had at least one extracurricular activity they did regularly. Since I was already a pro at separating emotions from tasks in need of logic and tactical perusal, I thought I'd be decent at it.

Sergei nods, seeming to understand perfectly. He probably does, since I'm near positive that he was the same. Excellent at concealing his darkness.

I follow him through the expansive, beautiful home in silence for several minutes, winding up staircases and down corridors. Artwork, statues, and priceless-looking artifacts are everywhere. I only look away when Sergei comes to an abrupt stop, and I nearly crash into him.