Jaded

by Anya Bast

  The doctor’s smile faded. “Hello there. It’s nice to see your eyes open.”

  She said nothing. She only stared at him, feeling like a wild animal ready to bolt at the first false move he made. She wanted nothing to do with any man. She wanted them all to die. Every last one of them. They should have left her in the alley because there wasn’t anything remaining of her to save. She was empty of everything but hate.

  “We won’t hurt you. What’s your name, dear?” the doctor asked. The other man hung back, saying nothing.

  She only stared at him in response. She wasn’t even sure she remembered how to speak or remembered her own name, for that matter. Either way, she wasn’t talking to him. Neither of them. She’d kill them, though, if she could.

  “All right, my dear. Take your time.” The doctor turned, gave a meaningful look to the other man. “I’ll be back in a while to check on her.”

  “Thank you, Nicolai.”

  The doctor left and the coarse-faced man approached her bed. She remembered him from the alley—black boots. He’d saved her life when she hadn’t wanted it saved. Interfering bastard.

  She crushed herself backward into the pillows, trying to get as far from him as she could, and glanced around the room for a weapon. This man was huge. There was nothing she could use to hurt him and she couldn’t move, anyway. Her arm and her leg were broken.

  Again, she was vulnerable.

  Again, she was helpless in the face of a man’s will. Bile burned the back of her throat. She never wanted to feel this way again.

  He held out a large hand. “It’s all right. I know I probably frighten you, but you have nothing to fear from me. I only want to help. I’m the one who found you in the alley, remember?”

  She didn’t believe him and she didn’t fear him. The hell she’d been through had burned all the fear from her. She wanted to die She had nothing to lose, so she feared nothing now. No, she hated him. Never had an emotion burned so pure and clean inside her.

  He pulled a chair up to the side of her bed and sat down. She spit at him, but he only calmly wiped it away and continued to speak. “I found you in the alley and brought you to my home here in Milzyr and called a doctor for you. See? I mean you no harm.”

  That’s what she’d thought about Ivan too. But all men meant harm. Anything else that came out of their greasy mouths was a lie.

  “My name is Byron. What’s your name?”

  No response.

  He pushed a hand through his hair. “All right. I’ll leave you alone. Give you some time. Maybe when you’re ready, you can tell me your name. I can notify your family that you’re safe. You must have someone in the world who cares for you. Let me know when you’re ready to send word.”

  Nothing. She only stared at him as though she could kill him with her eyes. How she wished she could.

  He got up, giving her a last concerned glance, and left the room. Finally. Her anxiety eased.

  Time passed. Her wounds healed. The months spent in the bedroom of Byron’s home renewed her body, but not her mind. She barely suffered the doctor’s hands on her for the next four months while her broken limbs repaired themselves. Sometimes, when she simply couldn’t help herself, couldn’t stand one more moment of his touch, she fought him.

  Her silence continued, although Byron visited her daily. He came and read to her, tried to entice her into playing strategia with him, brought meals to her and coaxed her to eat. He never unlocked the door, fearing, she supposed, she would escape into the night . . . which she would. He never allowed anything in the room that he deemed useful in a suicide attempt either. Every day she prayed the doctor would forget his bag of sharp instruments, if just for a few minutes, or that Byron would allow her to sleep on sheets that she could use to hang herself. Something.

  She’d wished for death the way she’d once wished for love.

  Early on, he sent a woman named Roxana in to help her bathe, take her measurements, and be her companion. Lilya never spoke to her either. And though she could bear a woman’s gentle touch more than a man’s, she hated it. Roxana, a sturdy dark-haired older woman, seemed unaffected by her rejection of her. The woman spoke to her in low tones of the recent news from the city, the goings-on at Belai Palace, and of Roxana’s family that seemed to constantly vex her. Lilya watched her with fascination. She seemed like such a happy woman.

  Every day Byron asked her name and every day she refused to answer. He never gave up on her and she hated him for it.

  One night when she was almost completely well, she discovered a knife had been left behind from her dinner. Her fingers closed around the cold, smooth silver handle and she examined the sharp blade with fascination.

  Finally. Relief was only a cut away.

  This knife could remove all her pain. A sharp slice and all the memories that gave her nightmares would vanish. Her blood on the floor and her worthless self would disappear just like that. Her blight on the world gone. No one would be able to treat her like she was disposable again. No one would be able to hurt her.

  She set the tip of the knife to the base of her wrist and watched numbly as it bit deep into her skin. Fire raced along her flesh as she dragged it upward, her blood welling hot on her skin and dripping down to plop onto the thick carpet.

  The door burst open and Byron was there, ripping the knife from her fingers and pulling her toward him. She screeched. The first sound she’d made in months. The sound was of pure agony and despair. Rage that he’d taken her opportunity to die away from her. She pushed at him, fighting him, blood smearing his face and clothes. But his arms were like steel and she was far too tiny to break free. He pulled her against him and wouldn’t let her go. He grabbed her wrist and forearm and bore down with his huge hands, pressing her wound closed and swearing the whole time.

  “I knew it the moment I realized the knife was in here,” he yelled into her face. “What are you doing to yourself? Why do this?” he raged on and on at her, holding on to her wound until the bleeding had slowed. Then he lunged for one of the curtain ties, binding it around her wrist and forearm and tying it tight. “I won’t let you! I’ve put too much work into keeping you alive.”

  Sobbing, totally bereft, she looked up from her bandaged arm with a sense of loss and into his face. His eyes were glistening with tears. He blinked and they rolled down his rough cheeks.

  This big, strong man? Crying? For her?

  “Why?” She wasn’t sure what she was asking. Why was he crying for her or why had he bothered to keep her alive? Maybe she was asking both those questions.

  He just looked at her quizzically, as if he couldn’t understand her befuddlement.

  She slumped back against the bed. “You should have let me die in the alley.” Her voice came out rusty, whispering, rasping, and halting from disuse. Her throat hurt from the act of speaking and the words felt strange around her tongue.

  He leaned in toward her, cupping her face in his bloody hands. “No. Don’t ever say that. No.”

  Realization struck her. This man actually cared if she lived. All he’d done for her since the day he’d found her hadn’t been able to sink through the confused, grief-stricken fog of her mind, but now she saw it. This man wanted her well-being more than she did. He wanted her healthy, strong . . . safe.

  “Why?” she whispered again. Bafflement ruled her mind.

  “Because you matter.” He crushed her to him and held on tight.

  All the emotion that had been caught inside her like a dammed river let loose. Deep, racking sobs broke free and rushed forth. Tears streamed down her face. Her body convulsed with deep grief, like sludge dredged up from the depths of her. It was a cathartic experience, clearing her out and emptying her until she sagged with exhaustion and all her tears were gone. Her head hurt and her throat and eyes burned, yet she felt better than she had in a very long time.

  Byron held her through it all.

  Finally she lifted her head, wiped her cheeks and said, “My name is Lilya.�
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  That was the threshold. From that moment on, her mind began to heal as well as her body. Slowly, she clawed her way back to a place where she could hate men a little less, thanks to Byron, and love herself a little more.

  Six months passed. She lived in Byron’s home and slowly forged a friendship with him. They played strategia, read books, and ate meals together. After she was fully healed and ready to face life again, they attended concerts together and went for carriage rides. He bought her dresses and took her out to dinner. Thus, slowly, she returned to the world.

  She remained shy with him, as she did with all people, especially men, for a long time. But eventually she regained herself, every inch. She regained her confidence, her self-esteem, and her will to live.

  The next part was something she omitted from the story she told Alek.

  Although she could not say she’d fallen in love with Byron, since love was so far out of her reach as to be impossible, she came to care for him a great deal. When the memory of her ordeal had faded a little and her mind had readjusted itself as healthily as it could, she had wanted Byron to make love to her. She wondered if his touch could erase the taint of what had been done to her somehow. Like his caring hands had some magickal quality she could benefit from—to dissolve the past. Perhaps it would rewrite history for her, leave her with another, better memory. However, Byron resisted her every attempt in that direction.

  Then one day she woke to find he’d left the house. Not only that, he’d left the house to her, the deed signed over to her name. He’d left her a bank account as well. It was a good thing, of course, but heartbreaking because he’d been gone.

  She omitted that last part too.

  Six

  Alek studied Lilya as she spoke. It was as though she’d left the room, but her body was still in the chair. Her gaze was unfocused, far away, as if she gazed into the past. He felt like he’d gone there with her.

  “I lived in the house for another six months before I grew too lonely to stay. I didn’t discover that Byron was Byron Andropov, heir to a huge elusian crystal fortune, until two years after he’d left.”

  Her eyes focused, found his, then her gaze dropped into her lap. She was back in her body. “That’s it. That’s my history with Byron. It’s not trifling. In fact, even though I only knew him for around twelve months, Byron is the most important person in my life. He says I owe him nothing, but I know I owe him everything.”

  The room fell silent. The fire in the hearth snapped and popped, but was the only sound. During the time Lilya had been speaking, twilight had enveloped the sky beyond the huge windows of the library. He’d been so engrossed in the tale he hadn’t even noticed the time passing.

  Alek sat considering both of them. Byron, for never having shared this story with him. What had kept him from telling Alek something that had had such a huge impact on his life? Byron had spent that year in Milzyr, unreachable to most everyone. He’d told Alek it had been business he’d been doing there, on behalf of his ailing father. He’d lied, rather than share this story with him. To Alek, that said a lot about how important this woman was to him.

  And, Lilya. Now he saw her through different eyes. Her situation was far more layered and complex than he’d ever imagined. Instead of a courtesan sitting in that chair, he saw a woman who had been to hell and come back from it.

  “And Ivan.” Alek broke the silence. “What ever happened to him and his men?” His fists clenched. “I hope Ivan died with a knife through his throat in a back alley. All his thugs too.”

  Lilya met his eyes. “Ivan is Ivan Lazarson. Ah, I see by the look on your face you know who he is. He wasn’t so powerful, not back then. His rise in the crime world was still to come. I would like to see him punished, but for someone like me, he’s untouchable.”

  “Not to someone like me.” Byron’s words came out hard and low.

  Lilya dropped her gaze into her lap. “I’m sorry. This is the first you’ve heard of Ivan being Ivan Lazarson, isn’t it?”

  “He was only a faceless bastard to me before, anonymous and untraceable. Now—”

  “No!” Lilya’s eyes flashed as she looked at Byron. “You will do nothing against him. He had the Imperial Guard paid to look the other way before the revolution and now he’s got the Milzyrian Protectors doing the same. It’s too dangerous. Promise me.” She paused, staring at him when he made no response. “Promise me, Byron.”

  He raised his gaze to hers, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “That’s a promise I cannot make, Lilya, but if you want me to stay away from him, I will.”

  Her brow knit, but the answer seemed to satisfy her. Alek knew him better than she did. He could hear the words he knew Byron had added to his last sentence in his mind.

  For now.

  Alek pushed a hand through his hair. “But I don’t understand why you chose to take up work as a courtesan after what you’ve been through. It seems to me that you would push away all men and, especially, sex. You didn’t need to do it since you had the house and money from Byron.”

  Lilya pulled back the wrist cuff of her dress to Alek, showing him the scar from where she’d tried to take her life. “Ivan destroyed any possibility of my maintaining a loving relationship with a man, so marriage was completely out. Thanks to Byron giving me financial stability, I could have stayed in that house and shut myself away from the world and all men. Or I could have chosen a new path for myself, one that allowed me to reenter the world on my own terms. Choosing my current profession was my way of taking control, Alek. I choose my clients. I control every aspect of my relationships with them. I’m financially independent without having to be married, something I don’t want and doubt I could manage, anyway. I’m happy with the choice I made and would make it again.”

  “I guess after all you’ve been through, it just seems strange.”

  “You can never understand the decisions another makes unless you’ve walked in their shoes. My choice of career has empowered me by allowing me control where men are concerned.”

  He studied her, thinking that wasn’t necessarily the healthiest way for her to deal with her trauma. Yet, it wasn’t his place to point that out. He might very well be guilty of unhealthy dealing himself. After all, how many times had Byron accused him of burying himself in his studies to avoid the past?

  Instead he said, “I truly am sorry for the insult I offered earlier.”

  Lilya smiled. She was beautiful, captivating, and had a charm that drew men easily to her. Some people had a spark inside them that attracted people. Ivan had not doused it in Lilya and that was something like a miracle. “It’s not the first time I’ve endured them.”

  “If I had known, I never would have—”

  “I know. Your apology is accepted. Anyway, all that happened a long time ago.”

  Yes, he liked to say the same thing. Brush it under the carpet. Not talk about it. Ignoring some things made them easier to deal with.

  Byron cleared his throat. Alek looked over and saw emotion on his face. Not much could make Byron Andropov show his feelings. “Is your curiosity satisfied?”

  “More than.”

  “Good.” He cleared his throat again. Alek knew Byron well enough to know he was attempting to mask his reaction to Lilya’s story. “It’s late and it’s been a long day of traveling. I think we should all go to sleep. Would you show Lilya to one of the guest bedrooms, Alek?” Byron stood.

  Ah, Alek understood. Byron needed to be alone. “I’d be happy to.”

  Alek fell into step with Lilya as they went up to the second floor of the house. He’d had enough schooling to see the emotional and psychological underpinnings of her desire to become a courtesan since it gave her control of men, instead of the other way around. Unhealthy though that might be. He wondered if there weren’t other things in play too, perhaps ways she might be using her obvious beauty and charm to punish her clients. He wouldn’t doubt it—or blame her, really—if that were the case.

  He led her
to the nicest of all the guest rooms, one not far away from Byron’s. Byron may profess to have invited Lilya here for Alek’s sake, but he wasn’t blind or stupid. Lilya and Byron had a chemistry that snapped like a current of elusian crystal. Every move they made, every gesture, every word they shared seemed like foreplay. He sensed there was much unfinished and unsaid between them and her time here would consummate their relationship.

  She looked into the room, noted the huge soft bed, the fireplace, and heavy carved-wood furnishings. “It’s beautiful.”

  “I can start a fire for you, if you wish.”

  She shook her head and smiled at him. “I can do it myself. I see there’s kindling there and flint.”

  “I’ll just bring up your bag, then.”

  “Thank you.”

  He turned to leave, but she caught his arm. Her touch was light, nice. Her hand on him made him think about things he hadn’t in a long time. He eased away from her, a flare of something long forgotten igniting inside him.

  She withdrew her hand. “I hear you’re a scholar of history.”

  “I’m getting a degree specialization in the Purion Era right now.”

  “Do you intend to teach?”

  “I intend to write books.”

  “Ah.” She pressed her lips together and looked down at the polished black toes of her expensive pair of boots. It seemed like she wanted to say something else.

  “What is it, Lilya?”

  She raised her gaze to him, her cheeks a charming shade of pink. “I never went to school. Or, at least, I stopped going to school once my father died. He was a good man who thought education was very important, but he was also a poor man who couldn’t make provisions for a daughter with no other family once he’d died.”

  “He was right to value education.”