I thought of Sergei.
“I can see that,” I said.
A whimper escaped Aurora.
“Do you think she’s behind the attack?” If my wife had done this, then why did she put herself in the line of fire? “Wait a minute.” I turned to Ivan. “Your sources are wrong.”
“Excuse me?”
“Aurora was not … she was attacked tonight. They called her a traitorous bitch. Aurora doesn’t have her own following.”
The only sign that Ivan had heard my words was the clenching of his jaw. He looked ready to commit murder.
Mark finished up the ink, and as he did, Aurora whimpered. I took a step toward her. Mark applied a Band-Aid to keep it covered. The tattoo was in an easily infected area. He gave her the rundown of care.
The moment he finished, she stood up, and I went to her side, tucking her against me.
“Aurora, can I ask you a question?” Ivan asked.
She nodded her head.
“Were you liked at home?”
She jerked within my gaze, and I saw the tears in her eyes. “Why? Is this to punish me for what my father did?”
“Were you respected? Loved? Liked?”
“Mr. Volkov, people didn’t even know I existed, and if they did, they made me very much aware of just how unimportant I was.”
Chapter Six
Aurora
My wrist hurt.
My head hurt.
My back hurt.
Everything fucking hurt. Yet, nothing seemed to be quite as painful as the knowledge that my family and everyone around them didn’t like me.
“Were you respected? Loved? Liked?”
Ivan’s questions played in my head on a mocking repeat. No one liked me. No one even cared about me.
I was given to Slavik and the Volkov Bratva because my father didn’t want to give away the daughter he actually loved.
Tears filled my eyes, and I hated how I felt, the way I was reacting. Tilting my head back, I stared up at the pool room. Sergei had cleared the pool so I could use it. Every other time, I always felt a little embarrassed at the power he used for my comfort. Today, a week after getting the tattoo that aligned me with the Bratva, I needed to do something other than sit in the apartment. Even reading wouldn’t rid my mind of these thoughts. I tried so hard not to let them consume me, but it was next to impossible.
Rubbing at my temple, I took a deep breath, aware of Sergei watching me. He’d been really sweet and kind to me. I didn’t know if that was part of his job description, but I didn’t know how to handle it.
I wasn’t one for a pity party. At least not every single day.
Today, a week after the attack and the questioning from Ivan Volkov himself, the pain of my past just wouldn’t go away. All the memories surrounded me, refusing to leave me be. The way people ignored me, even as a child. When I wanted to play. I was never good enough. Often left to read as the other kids couldn’t stand me.
My mother would tell me to leave the kids alone. If they didn’t want to play with me, then maybe there was something wrong with me.
No matter how kind I was, I wasn’t liked. At parties, I was ignored. No one asked me to dance. I spent most of my time standing in the corner, watching all the fun happening, knowing I was never going to be part of it. The shopping trips. I watched Isabella so often get invited.
I’d be close by, but no one would extend the invitation in my direction. If I asked if I could come, some excuse would be made.
In the end, I stopped trying to be involved.
No one wanted me. No one liked me.
I’d spend hours, staring out of a window, trying to figure out what people hated about me. Why I was so disliked, and even now, I couldn’t figure out a reason.
“Are you okay?” Sergei asked.
“I’m fine.” I wasn’t swimming. The pool wasn’t helping to alleviate my troubles. I’d stopped trying to figure out long ago why people couldn’t stand me and yet here I was, still attempting to find a reason.
I climbed out of the pool, wrapped a towel around my waist, and walked toward the doors.
Sergei was there, and no one else waited to enter the room.
I took a deep breath as we headed toward the elevators, but today, I didn’t want to stand with the doors showing my reflection.
“I’m going to take the stairs.”
“Aurora,” he said.
I stopped at the door and turned toward him.
“You know you can trust me, don’t you?”
“I don’t know you, Sergei.”
“I know you.”
This made me laugh. “No, you don’t. You know what you’re told to know.”
“You can trust me.”
Staring at him, I truly believed he thought that. “I have to go.”
My hand was bound up so no water got to the ink that now stayed on my skin. Removing the plastic cover, I released my hand and took the stairs, heading toward the penthouse suite.