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The thought of Martin’s bed is the bucket of ice water I needed.
I hated that bed. I hated what he’d do to me in it.
Our first time together was my first time, ever. He was gentle then, and diligent enough in his foreplay to make sure I was relaxed and ready. But it was still painful, and he didn’t stop when I begged him to. He only pinned me down and pounded away until he emptied himself inside me.
Every time after, he only made sure to do the bare minimum so he could push easily enough into me to work out his stress. Or his anger. Or just to remind me, with words and with the pistoning of his hips, that I belonged to him. That no other man could ever replace him between my legs.
I snort out a laugh. Demyen more than replaced him inthatdepartment.
A set of double doors catches my eye. I think I’m on the other side of the house and that makes me realize, as I glance around, that this means I’m probably in Demyen’s wing.
I should keep going to my room.
I shouldn’t poke around his private quarters.
But hedidsay to make ourselves at home, right? And there’s no sign on the door that says Ican’tgo in and have a look around, is there?
I let out a low sigh of relief when I see that it’s only a study. Like every other room I’ve seen so far, it’s utterly devoid of any personal touches. So I have no hesitation over slipping inside and poking around.
I don’t even know what I’m looking for. A pen? A notepad? Dirty secrets? Skeletons in the closet?
The desk chair is like an armchair on wheels, covered in dark brown leather, and it squeaks slightly when I sit in it. I giggle to myself as I spread my fingers on the huge desk’s surface because my God, what on earth does he need all this space for? Does the president even have a desk this big?
One thing I’m also picking up about Demyen—everything matches. Nothing is disorganized. I notice the silver cup ofpens and how they’re all identical. So out of curiosity, I open the desk drawers to disprove my theory. But no, every pen is from the same pack. Black cartridges with gold accents. Even the stationary is the same soft linen with gold foil letterhead, stacked neatly and organized with all the precision of an office showroom display.
I think this guy might be a bit of a control freak.
With that thought firmly embedded in my brain, I decide it’s time to officially return to my own room. Not even to take a bath; just to make sure I stay on my side of the house and Demyen stays in his.
I make my way to the door, but I stop when I see a small bookcase against the wall that I hadn’t noticed when I came in. There’s a set of photos arranged on the top shelf, the first personal touch I’ve seen in this whole house.
The first photo is of a smiling little boy holding a weathered soccer ball, his face streaked with dirt. Even with all the smudges and the years erased, I can see Demyen’s eyes glittering on that sweet face. He looks so happy, so carefree.
Oh, Demyen. What happened to you?
Adulthood, probably. We all grow up and the smile fades. Even when Demyen smiles now, it seems like a stiff mask compared to the little boy’s grin in the photo.
I set the frame down and pick up the next one. It’s Demyen again, a few years older, but no less happy and playful. He looks like he’s around sixteen, in the heart of adolescence, and my heart flutters. Had we been in the same school at the same time, I would have crushedhardon him. The way his hair falls into his eyes, the way his teeth sparkle behind that wide, boyish grin…
And again, I find myself wondering what our kids would look like.
Stupid. Stupid, stupid Clara.
I’m about to set this frame down, too, when I notice the guy next to him. They’re arm-in-arm, laughing together, and clearly related.
And just like that, everything changes.
My blood runs cold.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I almost drop the photo, but I quickly catch it and set it back on the shelf.
Now, I don’t just walk out of the study, Irun.
