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“You went through my shit?” I ask, anger crawling over my skin.
“Bingo,” he says with a snap of his fingers.
I pick at the skin that surrounds my fingernails as I grow nervous. I’ve never had anyone go through my things. This feels like an invasion of my privacy. Max will tell Mikhail—I don’t doubt that.
He stands in front of me, becoming impatient for an answer. “Get on with it,” he persists.
“It’s just insulin,” I mutter.
“Just insulin,” he spits at me. “Sloane, this is dangerous. Are you even taking it correctly?” He speaks to me as if he’s upset, but there’s care in his words.
I shake my head. I know I’m not taking it accurately, but it’s better than Mikhail knowing about it.
“Why?”
“Oh, please,” I grit. “You and I both know how Mikhail is.”
He’s quick to shake his head and run his hands down his face in frustration. “Who gives a shit? This is your health we’re talking about. Don’t you dare let yourself run out. You come to me before that happens.”
I stand there with my lips pressed together and the racket hanging in my hand. “Sure thing,” I say, extending my hand out for my pen.
He gives me a glare before he passes it to me. “Do you think we could keep this between us?” I ask, hesitantly.
“Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “Not a chance.”
“Please?” I push the question.
He shakes his head and leaves me alone on the tennis court. I don’t bother chasing after him because Max isn’t the kind of man to change his mind, obviously.
With annoyance running in my mind on an endless track, I walk past the pool. There’s a pathway that leads to the beach. The sand is a gentle hue of gold with a comforting warmth. The water that crashes onto the shore creates white noise like a lullaby. The marram grass sways with the wind, speaking to my soul. How can something sound so calming without even whispering a word?
I sit in the sand for the next hour before heading back inside. When Dimitri brought my things to the house, he also brought the books. I can tell he understands how I am because his wife has the same interests as me.
Looking at the stack of books, I feel defeated because I’ve already read all of them before. Sighing, I roll over on the bed. I guess there’s still the notebook I could read. It feels a little personal going through someone’s writing, but I can’t help but feel intrigued.
The band that holds the book together is made of dark brown leather. It smells old and looks aged beyond repair. The pages are stained and wrinkled.
Expecting to see pages upon pages of someone’s thoughts, I find the exact opposite. I turn the first page and find a list.
One water bottle—one fingernail.
Clean up living room—bruised face and a cracked rib.
Protect Kirill—three back lashes.
Come home late—broken finger.
Run away—a back lashing for the number of hours I’ve been gone.
Talk back—hot knife to the skin.
I shut the book and shove it away from me as if it holds dark magic.What the fuck is this?Was this from someone else held hostage by Mikhail? Did he actually do this to people? That is fucking sick.I knew Mikhail was messed up, but this is beyond what I thought he was capable of. I don’t think his threats are empty, but if I stay here, there’s a chance I could meet the same fate.
Oh my God.
I can’t believe I let Mikhail touch me the way he did.
My stomach turns and I feel bile rising in my throat. Mikhail hasn’t given any sign he’d do any of this to me, but I know he’s capable of it. I won’t endure any more time here. I need to get the fuck out of this house.
