Narrowed eyes met mine, and I held them in challenge. After a stare-off that lasted longer than anyone sane would be comfortable with, Yulia moved to the bed and untied my wrists with the quick type of skill that conveyed this wasn’t her first time dealing with ropes or pets.

When I was free, I stared at my expression in the bathroom mirror. I looked like the college girl in a gory horror film who got killed first by a chainsaw. Considering the stupidity that got me into this situation . . . how apt a comparison. My stomach grew queasy, so I turned the shower to hot, stripped, and stood under the spray of water.

Red swirled down the drain, and at the sight, cold prickles erupted on the back of my neck. The memory crashed into me like a tidal wave, snatched the beating heart from my chest, and let it sink to the depths of the Atlantic.

Holding Mr. Bunny by his droopy ear, I watched the shiny red car pull into the drive from my window. I’d only seen the woman a couple of times after Papa put me to bed and thought I was sleeping.

I frowned, remembering the day before, when I told the neighbor boy I didn’t have a mother. He looked at me like I was so dumb, and then, he said everyone had a mom, and if they didn’t, they were an orphan. I didn’t want to be an orphan.

This woman had long blonde hair, just like me.

Maybe she was my mother.

Suddenly, I felt very thirsty, and the glass Papa left near my bed wouldn’t do. The water was old, and it probably had dust in it.

Mr. Bunny in hand, I tiptoed down the stairs in my nightgown. Papa always said he had a sixth sense that would tell him when I wasn’t in bed like I was supposed to be, but only a four-year-old would believe that, and I turned five yesterday.

My tummy dipped when shouts drifted down the hall. Papa never raised his voice. He must be very angry. I drifted toward the sounds and stopped in front of the closed library door.

Bang!

My heart jumped. I leapt back, and Mr. Bunny slipped from my fingers.

Then, it went silent.

Red paint leaked from beneath the door, soaking my favorite stuffed animal. He was mine, and now he was ruined. I scooped him up while a sob worked its way up my throat. Warm paint stained my hands and nightgown. It was a mess, and now I’d have to take a bath. Everything was ruined.

The library door opened. Papa said a bad word and blocked the doorway with his body, but I could see his friend asleep on the floor with long blonde hair and red paint all over her.

Closing the door, Papa picked me up, my cheeks wet with tears.

“Mr. Bunny is ruined,” I cried.

“We’ll fix him up.”

I sniffled, tears slowing, and whispered, “I’m thirsty.”

“You have water beside your bed.”

“It has amoebas in it.” I was going through a Bo phase from Signs.

“You don’t know what those are.”

He forced me to take a bath and combed conditioner through my hair. If he didn’t, my curls got too tangled, and they hurt to brush out.

“Papa, your friend . . . is she my mother?”

His gaze softened. “No, angel.”

My eyes grew heavy as he scooped me up in a towel. And the last image I had before sleep took me under, was red paint running down the drain . . .

I slid down the shower wall, numbness pervading every cell within me. I’d like to believe my mind had pushed the memory so deep it’d never see the light of day in an act of self-preservation, but that was a lie. Subconsciously, I always knew something wasn’t right, that things weren’t as sparkly as they seemed, and I smothered the guilt of ignoring the truth by living an altruistic life. Although, with the knowledge in front of my face, I couldn’t live in blissful ignorance anymore.

My papa may be a good father.

But he was not a good man.

Even now, I didn’t know what to do. In this world, everything was twisted and upside down, and as the numbness faded, uncertainty of where my loyalties should lie tore at me.

Picking myself up off the floor, I wrapped a towel around me and exited the bathroom, taking a step back before I ran into Yulia. Without further ado, she shoved my cheer bag into my arms.

“Dress. Then you come down to breakfast.”

I hesitated, looking at the bag that felt foreign in my arms. A week in this house, and my past was a distant memory. I’d wanted out of this room, but today I wasn’t so sure about anything.

“It was not request,” Yulia snapped impatiently.

“And if I don’t?” Casting a meaningful glance at her small frame that was easily five inches shorter than mine, I asked, “Are you going to carry me out?”

Her expression hardened, and with a humph, she turned on her heel to the door, steps filled with purpose. She was going to tell on me, and the last thing I wanted this morning was to be manhandled by an oversized psychopath.

“I’m going,” I growled.

She paused, and then, slowly, she turned to me with a triumphant smile.

“Evil woman,” I said under my breath, only to hear a returned, “Brat.”

Refusing to allow her to drag me down to an eight-year-old’s level, I ignored the insult and dug through my bag like it might hold the key to escaping this place—though, unfortunately, all it contained was a pile of bright, messy clothes.

I hadn’t gone this long without shaving since I was thirteen, but wearing pants to conceal it felt like Ronan would be winning an unsaid battle. I didn’t care what he thought of my appearance, and if it turned him off—even better. I slipped on a flowy off-the-shoulder bohemian dress and inhaled a breath for the confidence I would need to traverse the devil’s lair.

With bare feet, I followed Yulia down the hall, throat tightening as I passed the spot the guard fell. A lemon scent lingered in the air, and the floor sparkled like it was polished. I wondered if Yulia spent her morning knee-deep in bloody paper towels.

As we made our way downstairs, I took in my surroundings. The home’s decor was grand, with tall ceilings, white crown molding, and marble floors. However, the Persian rugs, dark curtains, and mismatched furniture gave it a warm and masculine feel. If it wasn’t my prison cell, I could almost say it was comfortable.

Ronan sat at the end of the long table in the dining room. He reclined in his high-back chair like a king, eyes as dark as his soul. Like some twisted version of Narnia, I was sure, if I stepped into his wardrobe, it would lead me straight to hell.

I stopped at the other end of the table with every intention of sitting as far from him as I could manage, though, with a cool gaze, Ronan pushed out the chair next to him with his foot.

What a grand gentleman.

I’d rather try the two-story jump from my window than sit next to him, but pride wouldn’t allow me to reveal the shake in my veins. So I moved toward him like I did it every day; like he didn’t shoot a man in the head in the same room days ago. I sat, the only sounds the soft scrape of my chair against the marble and Ronan’s intrusive presence.

A dark-haired girl close to my age entered the room and quietly set fine china dishes on the table in front of us. Bliny. Russian pancakes served with fresh jam—my favorite meal Borya prepared at home in vegan fashion.

My stomach churned at the idea of forcing it down, but I would try. I wouldn’t survive in this world if I couldn’t adjust, and I refused to let it eat me alive.

I forked a blin and dropped it onto my plate. Ronan only sat back in his chair, the sparkle of my earring twirling between his fingers while he watched me add jam to the top. Cutting into a pancake, I halted when he still didn’t move.