Page 40 of The Beauty Who Loved Him

A particularly bad migraine hit Vaslav; he would see her when he did.

Along with the news of her father’s flight the following day. She barely even had time to say goodbye before Demyan was gone on top of her worries swirling around Vaslav. Mostly because that was the first time he had gone out of his way to inform her about the state of his well-being.

Literally.

Every other time she was there, and he couldn’t hide it. Because she fully suspected that his pain and troubles were ever constant in his days, never ending. Better or worse, well, that could be debated. She doubted he was ever totally free, though.

Like the past week.

How often was he bedridden?

Or worse?

And she was just down the hill ...

It was only when the squeak of a shoe stopped near the den’s doors did Vera glance away from the picture the evening painted in the backyard. She expected to find Mira had come to ask her if she needed anything for the evening, but Vaslav stood there. Hands tucked into a pair of black sweats, with a plain white t-shirt pasted to the planes of his broad chest, and dark circles under his pensive stare that zoned right in on her.

She frowned. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Not particularly.”

As he spoke, his jaw worked around every word. Like it took a great deal of effort to form the words, and then, he had to get through speaking them, too.

Still, he asked, “Didn’t Igor tell you that Kiril—”

“Would take me home, yes,” she interjected. At the flinch in his brow, she lowered her voice another octave. Barely above a whisper. “I don’t really have anything I need to be in the city for—no work, the villa is fine if Kiril can water the plants every few days, and ... yeah.”

“You’d like to stay here.”

It wasn’t even a question.

Vera nodded. “I would. With you.”

That part needed to be clear. Especially as she watched Vaslav’s gaze travel over the state of his den. The same place where they had first sat down for tea was unrecognizable from that initial meeting. What furniture had survived his latest bout of rage—when he toppled the desk as she sat in the office chair on the other side—was only a fragment of what she remembered being in the room that day. Gone was the glass coffee table with the ornately twisted legs made of metal between the couch and chairs facing the windows. Nothing remained on the walls. Every picture and piece of art depicting forest landscapes and snowy mountain caps had been taken down.

Or damaged, and then removed.

She didn’t ask.

That wasn’t the point.

Someone, probably Vaslav just from the sheer size alone, had reset the desk in its proper position on the large rug, however, they hadn’t bothered with anything else. The glass bowl that had been full of individually wrapped taffy candy remained shattered on the floor with its sweet counterpart scattered amongst the rest of the wreckage from the desk.

Papers.

Files.

A pen holder, and all its contents.

The laptop and lamp.

Even a dried rose bulb sat atop the remnants of a night she wouldn’t soon forget. Not because she had feared what happened, but because she suspected it wouldn’t be the last time. It clearly wasn’t the first. Was it easier for him to just topple or ruin the closest thing he could get his hands on than to manage the way he felt?

“Are you sure staying here is what you’d like to do?” he asked quietly.

Vera rolled her teeth over her bottom lip before replying, “I’m not sure what you expect from me, but I won’t be living apart from you after we’re married. By my choice.”

“But you might not always want to be here.”