Page 109 of Cruel Delights

You should, little lamb. I was supposed to end you weeks ago.

I prop myself up on my elbow and reach for her left arm. The arm she has her piano keys tattooed on. We both watch my fingers stroke the ink on her dark brown skin.

“What happened with your family, Lyra?” I ask. “You haven’t spoken with them in years.”

She stills under my touch, immediate tension in her body. “How would you know?”

“You didn’t give any details, but you’ve heavily implied that was the case. Do you not remember?”

“I’m confused why you care.”

My fingers trace the outline of one of the keys. “You’ve said yourself we’re in a relationship. You’re not fucking anyone else. Neither am I. It stands to reason we would get to know each other better.”

Her eyes shrink into a glare. “Then tell me about yours.”

“Mine?”

“Your family. You’ve told me even less. You said you’re an only child, but everyone has a family somewhere. Tell me about your father. Tell me about your mother.”

I refrain from gritting my teeth, though I’m tempted to do so. Fortunately, I don’t give in, remaining cool and indifferent on the outside. I stroke my fingers along the delicate inside of her arm and indulge her request.

“Alright. Though there really isn’t much to tell—the Raskova line has all but died from existence. I was born in Saint Petersburg.”

“Russia?”

I nod. “That’s right. Though we moved to the States at a very young age. I was two… perhaps three. I do not remember much of anything about my birthplace.”

“Why did you move? You’ve always been wealthy, haven’t you?”

“My family has been for generations, yes. We have lineage connected to past Russian monarchies. My great grandfather was an advisor to the last czar. He was executed right alongside him at the start of the twentieth century.”

She flinches, then scoots her naked body closer to mine. “That’s a gruesome history.”

“Gruesome would describe my entire family. Anyway, to answer your question, yes. The Raskova name has always carried prestige and wealth along with it. My parents had an affinity for music, like your mother. But my father was also a prominent businessman. He moved to America to expand his business prospects. He felt he would have more opportunity to flourish here rather than deal with the political complications in Russia at the time.”

“And you lived in Easton your entire life?”

“No, we lived on a large estate in the Caplan Hills. It resembles a castle—my father had it built that way.”

“That’s… very remote.”

“My father is a very withdrawn man. I didn’t attend school like most children. School was brought to me. The best tutors money could buy. There was a lot of pressure on me to excel academically. I took it as a challenge and rose to the occasion. Most of my days were spent with books. I had a very… lonely childhood.”

She frowns. “That’s relatable.”

“I didn’t mind,” I clarify, my hand traveling. It leaves her arm and smooths a path along the curve of her hip. “In fact, I preferred it that way. Children annoyed me.”

“And your mother?”

“As I said, she was a fan of music. She played herself. The violin.”

“Is that where your appreciation for music comes from?”

“I began to play the violin because she was brilliant. I’m told my father fell in love with her when she played a violin rendition of Moon River for him.”

“She passed away?”

“You could say that,” I answer, acutely aware of the tautness in my muscles. I prefer not to think about this subject. “My father was having an affair. She was inconsolable, which led to her taking her own life. Some would say it was the broken heart that did her in.”