Page 145 of Blaire
I let my head drop forward and cry quietly, gripping my knees with my nails.
“I did want to be kind to you, Blaire,” he says, and he swears it, holding out his hands like he's praying for forgiveness. “But I'm not that sort of man—I hunger for darker things—and I knew that if I ever did have you, if I tried to sexually bond us, I'd unleash your deepest desires as a woman and you would have longed for that sort of affection, affection I can never give you. You'd have left to find something more, as all women do. Women need to feel love once they've had a taste of it, so keeping that sentiment dormant in you was my best option at ensuring you were always mine. And I'm not sorry.”
Looking up, I shake my head at him and something in me—my loyalty to him—splinters, because it all makes sense now. The beatings to ensure I was frightened of him. The isolated sexual abuse to connect us on a semblance of an emotional level, as he promised that I was the only one he truly wanted those moments with—everyone else was just a fuck because he didn't want to rape me. The mental conditioning so I was only able to think of him. His voice in my dreams. The fear that there's nothing else out there without him. The darkness and the coldness that I think was my captivity, which forced me to rely on him for basic things like shelter and warmth.
It was all for his own selfishness.
Charlie understood. That's why he's been slowly breaking me down to gain my trust. Why he's been doing his best to peel away each of my layers with kindness. He knew I'd never felt kindness before. It's the only thing that would have ever worked on me.
“And James?” I say to Maksim, wiping my running nose with the back of my hand as I stand up straight. “Why have you always been so cruel to him?”
Maksim lifts his shoulders, a merciless display. “I just don't love him.”
Poor James.My heart breaks for him.
In emotional misery, I hug my breasts to hide my nudity, feeling too exposed. He’s ripped out my soul and swallowed it whole, so I’ll be damned if I’ll just stand here naked and let him look at me.
“I can approach your conditioning from a different direction,” he says with a hint of panic, using his hands as a talking point. “We can go back to the way we were—nothing has to change. Not really.”
The audacity of him...
“Where did you take me from?” I say with pure hatred. “I know for sure you didn't buy me from a guy in Russia.”
He chuckles suddenly, like he can't believe I've just asked that, his face lighting up with impressed amusement. “You're resourceful when I'm not around, aren't you, my little pet?”
I say nothing, just stand here cuddling my nudity, and he tells me, “The IRA was recruiting child geniuses-” He leisurely steps toward me, one hand in his trouser pocket, “-so they created a few cryptic puzzles that were sent out nationally in magazines. Your parents let you have a go at them and posted off your results...” From walking toward me, he changes pattern and wanders from left to right, appearing to be deep in thought. I am in deep thought too. I can’t believe I’m Irish. I’ve always believed I was Russian.
“How does that connect me to you?” I watch him carefully, studying everything he says.
“Well, stories began flying around the underworld about a little redhead girl in Ireland who had executed the cryptic game, and after doing some extensive research, I found out this girl wasn't just talented. She was exceptionally talented—the only person who cracked the code of the puzzles, and that meant she was born for hacking. The IRA wanted you of course—even submitted an offer to your parents for you—that was when Tatiana sent me to get you.”
The shock that comes over me is overwhelming. “You stole me from my parents?”
He smiles like a dark angel, as if to say yes.
“Where are they?” I swallow past the growing lump in my throat. “My parents, where are they?”
“Dead,” he says without hesitation, unbothered by the fact.
“What?” My heart twists. Any hope I had of finding them shatters right there.
“Did... did you kill them?” I swear, if he did, I'm not sure I won't slaughter him right now.
“No,” he says, and I'm swamped with relief. “Your father died two years ago from a natural illness, and your mother...” There's a long, intense pause. “She followed a few months later—maybe of a broken heart.” He laughs with sarcasm after saying that, like the idea is weak and pathetic.
Perhaps it is pathetic but I think I understand. If you love someone so much and can't live without them, why not die of a broken heart? It's seems as good a way to go as any.
“Where did you take James from?” I want to find this out for my friend. Maybe he still has someone out there who's looking for him, who loves him.
“Fuck James,” Maksim hisses, and I know he won't spill his guts. “Where I took him from is none of your business.
“How long have you known I didn't buy you from a man in Russia, Blaire?”
I keep my mouth shut about how long I've known and how I know.
“He told you...” Maksim spits out, “...Charlie Fucking Decena.”
My heart goes a little faster at the mention of Charlie. I should never have left him.