The Darkness Within

Chapter Twenty Nine

A/N

Let's see 30 votes and 10 comments for the next update, I'd like to get my algorithm back up :)

Chapter Twenty Nine

The familiar scent of coffee rouses me from a sleep so deep it takes several tries to pry my eyelids open.

Sunlight streams through a large window in the hotel room, illuminating the interior I only got glimpses of last night, since I was so furious I couldn't focus on much other than Sergei.

It's a luxurious, beautiful suite that probably costs more to stay in than my annual salary. Or, what my salary was, before Sergei took me.

It's primarily decorated in red tones, with deep red velvet curtains pulled back from a window that gives a vivid view of Moscow. The carpet covering the entirety of the room is a beige color. The king-sized bed I lay on has white sheets, and a red coverlet crumpled at the base. Off to the side is an en-suite bathroom, not far from a wardrobe positioned against a wall.

In one corner of the room there are two comfortable armchairs, the same color as the curtains. In the other corner is a circular oak table with two matching chairs, one of which Sergei is lounging on. On the table is an elaborate spread of breakfast foods—similar to the setup in the dining room of Sergei's mansion each morning.

Sergei has a laptop open on his lap, and is typing away furiously. When I gather the sheets over my chest and sit up, his eyes flick to mine. They're guarded, he's likely expecting me to rage at him like I did last night.

I don't intend to. The cold logic that's enveloped me for the majority of my life is back in place, and I assess our situation from a purely objective standpoint, without a clutter of emotions crowding my mind.

I recall when Sergei told me that he makes business out of overthrowing the empire of other Bratva's in Russia—offering their leaders to either join him, or die. Coupled with the fact that Damien clearly knew my father, I think it would be safe to assume that Sergei killed my biological father. Otherwise, I suspect he would have been sitting at the table with the most powerful men in Russia last night.

I don't feel any pain over the prospect, nor sorrow. The small longing I had to know my parents died long ago when the real world came knocking on my sheltered door.

I'm aware that most people in my position would be yelling and throwing objects in anger, but I have no urge to do so. Sergei's omission will result in the natural consequence of what trust that has been built between us in the last few months being broken. Since his initial goal with me was trust and intimacy, losing both those things is the best punishment. What's more, it won't take any effort on my part.

I've observed through my life what an unrewarding emotion anger is. It takes up a lot of energy to feel, and gives no rewards in turn. That observation was confirmed when I felt true anger for the first time in my life last night. It siphoned away the logic that's served me well so far in life, and left behind both bitterness and an internal feeling of weakness, as though it drained me.

"Good morning," Sergei greets, his voice cautious. He's trying to sense my mental state—predict my next movements.

I don't intend to make that easy on him, but I also don't want to waste time on pleasantries.

"What was my father's name?" I ask him, cutting straight to the chase.

I have a plethora of relevant questions running through my mind, and I certainly deserve answers.

"Ravil Serov," Sergei responds, closing his laptop and setting it aside. He inclines his head to the breakfast spread. "Coffee?"

I disregard that. "From the way Damien spoke of him, I'd guess that Ravil was a pakhan of a substantial Bratva. Is that correct?"