Rejecting the Sinner (Underworld

Sinners Book 6) Hayley Faiman

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REJECTING THE SINNER
AN UNDERWORLD SERIES NOVEL
HAYLEY FAIMAN
HAYLEY FAIMAN BOOKS, LLC
 C O NT E NT S

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RUSSIAN BRATVA STRUCTURE

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue

About the Author

Also by Hayley Faiman
Rejecting the Sinner

Copyright © 2022 by Hayley Faiman

All rights reserved.
Editor: My Brother’s Editor. Ellie McLove.
Proofreading: My Brothers Editor. Rosa Sharon.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief
quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Visit my website at: http://hayleyfaiman.com
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A L S O B Y H AY LEY FA I M A N

Men of Baseball Series—

Pitching for Amalie
Catching Maggie
Forced Play for Libby
Sweet Spot for Victoria

Russian Bratva Series —

Owned by the Badman
Seducing the Badman
Dancing for the Badman
Living for the Badman
Tempting the Badman
Protected by the Badman
Forever my Badman
Betrothed to the Badman
Chosen by the Badman
Bought by the Badman
Collared by the Badman

Notorious Devils MC —
Rough & Rowdy
Rough & Raw
Rough & Rugged
Rough & Ruthless
Rough & Ready
Rough & Rich
Rough & Real

Cash Bar Series —

Laced with Fear
Chased with Strength
Flamed with Courage
Blended with Pain
Twisted with Chaos
Mixed with trouble

SAVAGE BEAST MC —
 UnScrew Me
UnBreak Me
UnChain Me
UnLeash Me
UnTouch Me
UnHinge Me
UnWreck Me
UnCage Me

Unfit Hero Series —

CONVICT
HERO
FRAUD
KILLER
COWBOY

Zanetti Famiglia Series —

Becoming the Boss
Becoming his Mistress
Becoming his Possession
Becoming the Street Boss
Becoming the Hitman
Becoming his Wife
Becoming her Salvation

Prophecy Sisters Series —

Bride of the Traitor
Bride of the Sea
Bride of the Frontier
Bride of the Emperor

Astor Family Series —

Hypocritically Yours
Egotistically Yours
Matrimonially Yours
Occasionally Yours

Nasty Bastards MC —
Ruin My Life
Tame My Life
Start My Life
Dance into My Life
 Shake Up My Life
Repair My Life
Sweeten My Life

Underworld Sinners—
Stolen by the Sinner
Bound to the Sinner
Caught by the Sinner
F*cked by the Sinner
Stripped by the Sinner
Rejecting the Sinner
Loved by the Sinner

Offspring Legends—
Between Flaming Stars
Beautiful Unwanted Wildflower

Esquire Black Duet Series –

DISCOVERY
APPEAL

Forbidden Love Series —

Personal Foul
Kinetic Energy

Standalone Titles
Royally Relinquished: A Modern Day Fairy Tale
 S TAY C O N N E C T E D

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Sometimes I feel my whole life has been one big rejection.
— MARILYN MONROE
 RU S S I A N B R AT VA S T RU C T U R E

Pakhan – The Boss: Controls everything.

Sovietnik – Councilor: Adviser and most close trusted individuals to the Pakhan.
Obshchak – The Bookmaker: Collects all money from Brigadiers and bribes from the government.
Brigadier – Authority: Captain in charge of a small group of men.
Boyevik – Warrior: Soldier, works for a Brigadier.
Kryshas – Covers: Extremely violent enforcers.
Torpedo – Contract Killers
Byki – Bulls: Bodyguards
Shestyorka – Associate: Errand boys. Lowest rank in the Russian Mafia.
 C HAPTER 1

ARSENY

I would like to say that murdering the head of the Persian Mafia was a mistake, but it wasn’t. The
fucker was doing nothing but causing goddamn problems. He was a liar and a thief. He was dirty as
fuck, and he wanted to screw over the Bratva just like his piece-of-shit father tried to do. He tried to
fuck with my people, and I killed the piece of shit.
The whole situation has put me in hot water, but not hot enough that I’m actually in any kind of
real trouble. Kazimir and Osip aren’t going to reprimand me in any way. They know what I did was
nothing short of a fucking favor.
Kazimir has kept a close eye on me since it happened, but I don’t regret it. The fuck was a threat,
has been for a while, and needed to go. He did the shit to himself. It was all confirmed to me when
Osip told me exactly what Rostam was so pissed off about. I already knew it though, because Ruslan
had told me.
We talk often, Ruslan and me, considering we’re in the exact same line of business. He started his
after mine and needed an ear to bounce ideas off of. Running women in Russia is a completely
different game than in the United States, so we tend to talk often and share ideas and also talk about
our woes.
Ruslan filled me on everything that was going on with him, his woman, and the Rostam fucker, so
I knew the guy was trash the second I laid eyes on him.
That motherfucker.
Not only did he try and play the whole fucking Bratva, more than once, he also promised Ruslan
virgin call girls and delivered women who were not virgin call girls. No matter how many young
willing girls he sent over to Ruslan, not a single one was a virgin. Typically, that shit doesn’t matter,
we don’t care, but at the same time, he lied.
If he’ll lie about that, he’ll lie about everything else.
Now that he’s dead, his wives no doubt hurt and angry, another man is no doubt setting up to take
over the Persian Mafia, so, I watch. This very much feels like my responsibility since I’m the one
who actually ended the fuck.
I should be at home in SoCal, but I can’t go back there yet. I can’t let this go. Kazimir is pissed at
me, Ruslan doesn’t blame me, but I’m feeling really fucking… off about it all. It’s my duty to handle
this, whatever happens next, whatever fallout comes from my actions.
I don’t know what the fuck is going to happen next. There is something that is just not right about
any of this. The person hasn’t been named who will take over the Persians. There is something just
not sitting right with me about that.
If Osip or Kazimir were taken out today, someone would be named to take their place before the
next day. You cannot go days without leadership when you’re trying to run an organization of any size.
We all wait, wondering what the fuck they’re going to try and get out of the Bratva.
It will be something.
They’re going to try because there is no way that Rostam and his father, who both tried to fuck us
over, were the only ones in that whole group that wanted something from us.
Maybe I should just go home and worry about my own people, my own women, and my own job.
Maybe I should leave this whole area alone. Osip and Ruslan are more than capable of running the
whole NorCal without me. I don’t know why I think that I need to be here.
It’s just a feeling.
Just a fucking feeling that I can’t shake.
So I’m going to stay here until that feeling subsides.
Watching Rostam’s house, I decide that I need to look at other high-ranking men’s homes. Nothing
is happening here, not really. There is a little movement, mostly women and children, a few men here
and there, but nothing of substance much to note.
I have a list of men to check on, but I don’t know how their Mafia works, so I’m just fucking
guessing. Driving toward the first house, I stop across the street and stare. There is a gate surrounding
the place. I’m not going to be able to see anything. It’s the same at every house around here, just like
in SoCal.
I need to just go home.
The passenger side of my car door opens. I look over in shock as a woman slips into the seat
beside me. She’s young, too young. She’s fucking sitting next to me, her eyes wide, then she opens her
mouth to speak.
“Drive,” she demands.
I don’t do anything immediately, unsure of who she even fucking is. Then she leans forward, shifts
the car into drive, and growls before she shouts.
“Drive.”
Slamming my foot against the gas pedal, I do just that. I drive. I don’t know who this is or where
I’m going, but I fucking drive.

ESSIE

“YOU WILL MARRY HIM. I do not care how you feel about it,” my father roars.
He wants to become the next man in charge. He thinks that if he hands me off to the second son of
Kevah, that it will make him the leader or some shit. It won’t. He’s stupid as fuck. Completely fucking
stupid if he thinks that he’s going to be anything.
Even if I become Kevah’s son’s favorite wife, then there is just no way my father is going to
magically take over. It will be Kevah’s son, or maybe another man, but my father isn’t strong enough.
My father is not going to be high ranking, ever.
 He isn’t going to do shit.
I’ve seen the way that he attempts to take control of situations, and he fails miserably every single
time. He has no backbone, and he’s not very smart either, he’s fucked completely, and I refuse to be
part of his stupid game.
“I will not,” I snap.
He lunges for me. But I don’t let him touch me.
Not today.
No more.
I’m eighteen years old, and I won’t let him hurt me anymore. For the first time in my life, I turn my
back to him, and I run. He’s going to come after me, so I have to be fast. I don’t know how to outrun
him. My father is weak, but he is fit. He exercises every day, runs, specifically.
Then I see it. A blacked-out sedan parked across the street. Sprinting toward the walking gate, I
punch in the code with shaky fingers and wrench it open, then I run toward the car. My father screams
my name. I can hear him right behind me, the shock of my defiance having worn off, he proceeds to
call me names.
I’m ungrateful, a whore, useless, trash. All of the above. Words that would have killed me a
couple weeks ago. Words that mean absolutely nothing to me right now. Instead, I fucking run toward
the car. At this point, it doesn’t matter who is behind the driver’s seat.
Wrenching the door open, I shout for the man behind the wheel to drive.
Twice.
He drives silently.
Until he pulls into a hotel parking lot.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
He turns to look at me, his eyes wide before his lips curve up into a grin. I take him in for a split
second and I realize that I’ve just gotten into the absolute wrong car. The blond hair, the ice-blue
eyes, the built body, and the suit.
“Oh shit,” I breathe.
His lips curve up into a grin. “Oh shit, is right. How old are you?”
“Eighteen,” I confess.
I don’t know why, but I want to tell this stranger everything. Every little thing about me and my
life. Those eyes, they consume me instantly. He is trouble though. I can tell just by looking at him and
I think that I’m in trouble by being here.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have…”
“But you did,” he says, interrupting me. “Why?”
Looking to the side, I watch as the valet makes his way toward us. I could run as soon as he opens
the door, but where would I go? My father will find me and force me to marry Kevah’s second son. I
absolutely do not want to marry him, but is this the better alternative? Whatever this is.
“I don’t know your name,” he says.
Russian. I hear the accent and I instantly know that he is not English or Persian. He is definitely
Russian. Pressing my lips together, I wonder if I should tell him anything. I probably shouldn’t. This
is trouble. Straight-up trouble, but as I look into those eyes, they practically force me to speak. It’s as
if he’s pulling the words straight from my throat.
“Essie,” I say, not giving him my last name, because my last name doesn’t matter.
“And you’re running?”
“I am,” I admit.
 He nods his head. “You probably made a mistake by getting in my car, but maybe not, huh?”
“Probably,” I say.
He chuckles as the valet opens my door. With absolutely nothing but the clothes on my back, I step
out of the car. Looking at the front door of the hotel, tipping my head back, I glance around at the
building.
It's fancy, like really fancy.
The man, whose name I don’t even know yet, places his hand on the small of my back and guides
me into the massive fancy building.
My legs suddenly turn to Jell-O as we walk through the automatic doors. His hand is firm against
my back, his fingers strong. I don’t complain a bit, it feels nice, but I wonder if I’m walking into a
dangerous situation or maybe it’s the exact right place at the exact right time. It’s where I’m supposed
to be? Perhaps this is fate. I’m not quite sure.
But I’m already here.
“Name’s Arseny.”
 C HAPTER 2

ARSENY

W alking into the hotel suite, I look behind me as she timidly slips into the room. Essie. What a
pretty name. I have about a million questions for her, but I’m not sure where to begin. She looks
terrified, that much is true, so I decide to just get started. There is no time like the present and I need
to know what I am getting into.
“Want to tell me who you’re running from?” I ask.
She ignores me, slowly walking past me toward the windows that overlook the dreary city. I don’t
really care for this part of the state too much. There isn’t enough sun here. I need to at least have it
pounding through a window most of the day. That doesn’t happen as much up here.
“Not really,” she says.
“You didn’t really have a choice in answering that one,” I point out. “Or any question I ask.”
She nods, the back of her hair moving up and down before she slowly turns around to face me.
When she jumped into my car and demanded I drive, I knew instantly that she was cute, pretty even,
but there’s something else now.
She isn’t just pretty, she’s fucking beautiful.
Stunning even.
Her dark hair, her light eyes, the way she’s staring right at me like she can see into my fucking
soul. I fucking love it and am intimidated by it all at the same time. I don’t get intimidated by women.
They are usually that way with me, not the other way around. Except in this moment, with her. When
she takes a step toward me, I hold my breath. Then she stops and tips her head back slightly.
“My father and the man he decided I would marry.”
“The unknown was a better alternative?” I ask.
She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip and watches me for a silent moment, then she takes another
step toward me. I watch as she lifts her hand, placing it at the center of my chest. It’s a bold fucking
move, but I can’t deny that I like the boldness about her. It seems to be bursting from her.
Even if she is terrified, I don’t see it. She hides it well right now. She is brave, this little girl.
“I know the saying is something about better the devil you know, but I know my father and this
man he’s trying to marry me off to and I refuse. There are only two options.”
I wait, but she doesn’t tell me the two options right away. I arch a brow, clearing my throat, then
lift my hand and wrap my fingers around her wrist to hold her there.
Finally, I ask her, “Those being?”
“Be a prostitute for the Bratva or run away and hide for the rest of my life.”
Tilting my head to the side, my lips curve up into a grin. “So you chose whore?” I ask.
Bold.
Did I mention she is bold?
I didn’t know she knew what we did. It shouldn’t surprise me, because Rostam was bringing
women to us, but I supposed it just leaves me a bit shocked because this is not something we would
offer to tell our daughters.
“Better to sell myself to the highest bidder than eat from the trash, yes?”
Clearing my throat, I reach out and wrap the fingers that aren’t holding her wrist around the front
of her throat, I squeeze gently.
She stares at me, and I stare right the fuck back. She’s so goddamn bold, I wonder if she is
someone who could ever be broken? I doubt it, which is why she ran. The man who likely would take
her would want to break her.
“You’re a virgin?” I ask.
She nods her head. “You could… willingly?”
“It’s the first decision I’ve ever made on my own before.”
This is probably a huge fucking mistake. I don’t know exactly who her father is in the Persian
Mafia, but I do know that it’s someone higher up in the ranks. Which means the marriage was likely to
someone high up as well.
“This could cause problems for me.”
“It could.”
I hum, searching her gaze with my own. “You want to sell your virginity? You want to sell your
body?”
Her tongue sneaks out, sliding across her bottom lip and wetting it before she speaks. “Do I want
to? Not particularly. Is it better than selling myself into a life of abuse, breeding, and torture? Yes.”
“Want to move to Southern California?” I ask, squeezing her throat again, gently.
She hums. “I hear it’s sunny there all the time.”
I snort. “We have beaches.”
“I’ve never been to the Southern California beaches,” she breathes. “I’ll move.”
“You’re going to cause a war.”
She laughs softly. “No, I won’t cause anything that isn’t already in motion.”
I wonder what she truly knows. She must know something, because those words, they aren’t
wrong. Although I’m probably the one that truly started whatever is about to come. At least I got the
ball fucking rolling a lot faster than it would have been had I not killed Rostam.
“Welcome to my world,” I murmur.

ESSIE

WELCOME TO HIS WORLD .

I’m not sure exactly what I’ve just gotten myself into. My stomach dips at the idea of selling my
body for money. I can’t believe that I am agreeing to do it, that I’m actually going through with it. But
at the same time, I know that I cannot go to Rostam’s brother. I know him well enough to know that my
life would be pure misery.
At least this, this is something that I am doing for myself.
This is a decision that I am making for myself.
Nobody can take this away from me, this is my decision, my choice, my path to freedom. Sucking
in a breath, I continue to look at Arseny, his blue eyes hold mine, and I wonder what it’s going to be
like in his world and at the same time, I can’t wait.
“Welcome to your world,” I repeat.
He hums but doesn’t say anything as he takes a step back, releasing his hold on me. “We leave
first thing tomorrow,” he announces. “Hungry?”
My heart starts to race, and I look past him to the large windows in the background. Hungry? I’m
starving, but not just for food. I want to run. I want freedom. I want everything. I want to get the hell
out of here, and tomorrow cannot come soon enough.
“Sure,” I say.
He nods his head, then walks over to the bar that has a phone sitting on the end. Ignoring the
conversation, I walk over to the large window and look out at the world in front of me. I don’t know
what the hell is going to happen in the future.
I’m terrified that this is going to be worse than the life that I was going to have, but at the same
time, I know that it can’t be. Even a minute of freedom is going to be better than what my father had to
offer me.
I’m pretty sure this is the wrong decision, but I know without a doubt that staying would definitely
be the worst decision ever. Sucking in a breath, I let it out slowly and decide that I’m not going to
think about anything other than my future.
It’s no surprise that I’m selfish. My mother always said that I was, and my father always scolded
me and said that a man would make sure to beat that out of me. But that won’t be happening. Not
anytime soon.
I’m going to continue to be selfish. I’m taking this selfishness and running with it. I’ve never been
able to be this way… ever. I’m doing it. And maybe, just maybe, I’m going to come out on the other
side.
If that’s what this is, being selfish, if refusing to be some man’s property, some man’s breeding
machine, some man’s punching bag means that I’m selfish, then damn right I’m selfish. I also know
that I’ll still be used by men, but just my body instead of my whole soul.
This venture that I’ve decided to take, to go on, it is the only way that I can see to take over as
much control as I can of my life.
“Food is coming. So is Osip. He’s the Pakhan, the leader of this area for the Bratva.”
Turning my head, I look over my shoulder at Arseny. “Is he your leader?”
He shakes his head. “Nyet, he is not. But I can’t leave without telling him exactly what is
happening.”
I know what this means. He’s going to want me to tell them details. Who my father is, who
Kevah’s son is. All of the above. I don’t want to say anything for fear that they’re going to use me to
bargain something. To dangle me as a peace offering or something.
“If you want to come with me to SoCal, if you sign a contract with me, you will not be forced to
go back.”
“How did you…?” I ask.
He smirks. “I can see it in your eyes. You’re scared shitless that I’m going to send you back there.
You want to be part of my girls, you’re more than welcome. I protect my girls. I always have.”
“Your girls?”
He hums, his eyes finding mine, holding mine as he walks up to me. Turning to face him, my head
tips backward and I look up into his beautiful blue eyes. He smirks and dips his chin slightly so that
he’s almost nose to nose with me.
“I run the business,” he murmurs. I almost ask him what business before he clarifies. “The
women, the clients, all of it. I am the one who interviews women, who screens clients. I am the one in
fucking charge. So, trust me when I tell you, nobody is going to get to you without going through me.”
I let out an exhaled breath. Lifting my hand, I wrap my fingers around the side of his neck. “Thank
you,” I whisper. “Thank you for saving me.”
He smirks, lowering his head, his nose almost touching mine. “You may not thank me later, but you
are welcome. And just to let you know, being contracted with me does not mean that I own you. It
means that I will protect you, but you will earn your own money. You will keep what you earn, you
will take care of yourself, and you will be free to leave whenever you wish.”
It sounds too good to be true.
It probably is.
But I know the alternative, so I’ll go with this too-good-to-be-true thing in hopes that it’s actually
not too good to be true and that it’s real.
So very real.
Maybe one day I’ll be completely free, living on the beach in Southern California with my future
husband and family.
Or maybe I’ll be one of those fabulous single women who just stay single forever and travel the
world with all of the money that I earn being a prostitute.
I think I’ll stay single and just be free forever. I like the sound of that.
 C HAPTER 3

ARSENY

O sip and Ruslan stare at me. Essie has excused herself to her room. Thank fuck I had the foresight
to grab a suite with two rooms. It wasn’t something that I typically do, but it was all they had in
suites, and I refused to stay here for an undetermined amount of time in a regular room.
“So, you’re taking a virgin, you’re going to auction her off essentially, and you’re going to leave
us here with the fallout?”
Pressing my lips together, I shrug a shoulder. “You want a cut?”
Ruslan chuckles, but Osip clears his throat. “Wouldn’t be too bad. I’ll take the cash. We got
bullshit headed our way.”
“We got more than bullshit. I don’t know what’s going to happen with those Persians, but they are
seriously fucking making moves,” Ruslan says.
“They aren’t,” I say.
“They aren’t?” Ruslan asks.
I shrug a shoulder, clearing my throat, I shift in my seat. “They’ve made no declarations. Nobody
has taken over shit. Essie’s father was trying to fucking pass her off to Kevah’s second oldest son in
hopes of getting in the top tier of the family. In hopes that he’ll take over and the father will have some
kind of power or some shit.”
“But she ran away to you?” Ruslan asks.
“Like the goddamn wind,” I say.
Osip and Ruslan stare at me, but it’s Osip who speaks next. “Ten percent, that’s all I want,” he
says.
“And?” I ask, knowing that he wants more from me.
His lips curve up in a grin, and he lets out a chuckle. “I may need you for future use. The
Persians… you never know what the fuck they’re going to try to pull.”
I clear my throat, shaking my head once. “I made her a promise, a vow.”
“A vow?” Ruslan asks, arching a brow.
I can tell that he’s trying not to laugh, he also has plans, and he doesn’t think that whatever vow
I’ve made is going to hold up.
Nodding my head, I chuckle softly. “Yeah, a vow. I promised her that she would be free of her
family. That she wouldn’t be used in any way, for anything.”
“How do you plan on holding that bargain?” Osip asks.
“A contract. She’s my employee. She signs my contract, and she’s no longer part of the Persians,
part of any of the shit here. She’s going to live in SoCal, she’s going to be tanning on the fucking
beach and eating avocado toast or some shit. This part of the state will no longer exist for her.”
Neither of the men says a word. They watch me, then Ruslan chuckles, shaking his head. “You
made a promise you may not be able to keep,” he says.
“I can keep it,” I state. “There is no way in fuck they’re going to touch her. She is no longer
theirs.”
“She’s not free, and she hasn’t been signed over to you,” Osip says.
“I am signing myself over,” Essie announces from the doorway of her room.
Osip turns his head to look behind him. Ruslan lifts his hand to hide his smile. But it’s Essie, I
can’t take my eyes off her. She’s wearing nothing but a pair of panties and the tank top she had on
earlier. Her long legs are on display, her stomach is too, just a strip between the waistband of her
panties and the hem of her tank.
Sexy as fuck.
She is sexy as fuck.
I am in so much goddamn trouble.
Fuck.

ESSIE

S LEEP IS something that is probably more subjective at this point, because I close my eyes, but my
mind never stops. I dream of a million different things. I dream of good and bad. I dream of evil and
fear. I dream of it all and when my eyes open, I feel absolutely exhausted.
The uncertainty of the future terrifies the absolute hell out of me. I don’t know if there is any way
for me to be calm about anything at this point.
Climbing out of bed, I walk over to the bathroom and start the shower. I have nothing clean to
wear. All I have is literally what I had on my back yesterday.
Thankfully, this hotel is really nice and has products for me to use. I have fancy soap, shampoo,
and conditioner, so I try not to inwardly complain about that, but clean underwear would not be
missed at this juncture of my journey.
Also, how do you ask a man that you’ve agreed to sell your body for sex, for underwear?
I avoid life by taking an extremely long shower. When I’m finished, when there is nothing left to
wash anywhere on my body, I slowly step out of the warm shower and wrap a fluffy white towel
around me.
Walking over to the vanity, I stand in front of the mirror and stare at myself. I’m barefaced, blue
eyed, and tangled hair stares back at me. I honestly don’t know why in the hell anyone would pay for
any part of me, especially if they saw me like this.
Gathering myself, I close my eyes and turn away from the mirror before I reopen them. Walking up
to the bathroom door, I wrench it open and step into the bedroom, then stop. There, in the middle of
the bed, are several large glossy shopping bags.
Taking another step forward, I inch toward the bags, then stop when I’m directly in front of them. I
know exactly where they’re from and my heart slams against my chest because I know the contents of
these bags are in the thousands.
The bedroom door opens, and I lift my head to see Arseny standing directly in front of me. I’m
still wrapped in a towel, looking like a drowned rat. He has the good sense not to say anything
though.
“Get dressed, there are a few things to choose from, shoes, hairbrush, and makeup. We leave after
breakfast. I’ve just ordered room service, so toropit’sya.”
When I continue to stare at him wordlessly, he smirks.
“Hurry up, malyshka.” He turns around, closes the door behind him, then he’s gone again.
I stare at the closed door for a long silent moment. Breathing in and out a few times before I turn
toward the bags. They’re pretty and inviting. Tempting.
My father spent money on me, mainly to show off in front of the other families. The more lavish
everyone in your family is, the more you’re looked up to. If you’re frugal, for any reason, then you
must be poor and therefore aren’t in as high standing as the other men. It’s a hit to their masculinity.
So, it’s not as if I’m unused to expensive clothes and items, but this somehow feels different. I’m
not sure exactly what it is, but it feels big… huge even. Tamping the sensation down, my stomach
growls, so I start to unpack the bags.
The clothes are simple, soft, comfortable fabrics, and they’re my size, which is kind of scary. The
skirt is navy-blue silk, and the shirt a soft white cotton V-neck. Bra and panties are top of the line,
Agent Provocateur scrawled on the teeny-tiny tags. They are sensuous. I don’t even want to put them
on, too afraid that I’ll damage them.
But I do.
Whimpering when the fabric touches my body, I can’t deny that I just feel plain sexy in them. Plus,
the soft luxurious fabric of the clothes over the top. I seriously feel so beautiful, and I haven’t even
brushed my hair yet.
Gathering the toiletry bag, I carry it into the bathroom and quickly brush my wet hair, then apply
the small amount of makeup that Arseny put in here. A little powder and some mascara. There is also
red lipstick, but I’m about to eat, so I don’t put that on.
Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I wonder how so very little makes me feel completely
different. I haven’t changed much. I brushed my hair, put on some black mascara, and clothes. How do
I feel like a completely different person?
I don’t have time to answer myself, because the bedroom door opens again, and Arseny jerks his
chin, then turns around and walks away again. I haven’t even looked at the shoes yet. There is one last
bag and inside, there is a shoebox, but I’m hungry, so I hurry after Arseny and toward food.
Walking over to the small table, I sink down in the chair across from Arseny. There is a domed
plate of food in front of each of us. He clears his throat, then wraps his hand around the stem of his
champagne glass and lifts it.
“To the future,” he murmurs.
Lifting my own glass, I clink it with his. “To the future.”
 C HAPTER 4

ARSENY

W ith a signed contract in my bag, a new employee to my right, I head toward Osip’s place to tell
him goodbye. I’ve already informed him that I’m leaving today, but there is something niggling at
me to stop by his place before I actually head out of town. It doesn’t surprise me to see that Ruslan’s
car is there.
Pulling into the driveway, Essie reaches over and wraps her fingers around my wrist, her nails
digging into my flesh. Shifting the car into park, I look over to her. She is sitting beside me, her eyes
wide and fucking terrified looking as she stares straight ahead.
“What?” I demand.
“That is my father’s car,” she whispers.
I didn’t notice the green sedan parked beside Osip’s car. Jesus fucking Christ. “I cannot go back to
him,” she whispers. “I will not.”
Turning to look at her, my lips curve up into a grin. Lifting my hand, I wrap my fingers around the
front of her throat, my gaze searching hers. Squeezing her gently but firmly, I hold her gaze with my
own. I do not let her look away from me. She is not allowed.
“You go nowhere. Your contract is with me, and you are my employee until either one of us says
otherwise.”
“What if he doesn’t care about your contract?” she asks on a trembling exhale.
Shaking my head slowly, I lean in. “In our world, these contracts are binding. He would have to
take over the Bratva to change this, and not only will he not do that, he cannot.”
She nods stiffly, not that I let her move her head too much. I have her right where I want her, and
I’m not going to let her go anywhere, not even to get lost inside her own head. Fuck all of this shit.
She is not going any-fucking-where.
“You want me to tell him that the contract makes you my property? I will if I have to.”
“Is that what I am?” she asks.
I could lie to her.
I could tell her what she wants to hear.
I know what it is.
She wants to hear that she is a free woman to do as she pleases. That she is in control of every
aspect of her life. I have promised her her freedom, so she wouldn’t be completely wrong, but that
contract that she read and signed this morning over breakfast, those are obligations that she must
fulfill to me.
“You know that you have obligations to fulfill,” I state.
I don’t give her a chance to ask me any more questions. Dropping my hand from her face, I open
the car door and unfold from the front seat. I’m not going to sit in the car and talk about what-ifs.
Instead, I’m going to find this motherfucker, tell him what the fuck is up, take her home and have her
fulfill my goddamn fucking contract.
Walking over to the passenger side of the car, I wrench the door open and hold out my palm for
her.
“I thought we were leaving immediately. Can’t we just go?” she asks.
Squeezing her hand, I shake my head slowly. “I didn’t know he would be here, but even if I knew,
I would still come. It’s the right thing to do. Get it over with now and be done with it before we head
home.”
“He will try something,” she whispers.
My lips twitch into a smile. “Let him.”
She opens her mouth, but I don’t let her say anything else. It doesn’t matter. She’s mine, however
that looks, and she will be coming down south with me, to West Hollywood West. She’s agreed, I’ve
sent her information to a few men who have been in the market for exactly her qualities.
Walking up to the front door, I don’t even have to lift my hand to knock, it just swings open.
Ruslan is standing on the other side, and he doesn’t look very fucking happy. Arching a brow, I don’t
ask him any questions. If he says the wrong thing, I have a feeling the little bird at my side may just try
to fly away from me next.
We pass him as he stands to the side and allows us by. I hear him grunt behind me, knowing that
he’s pissed the fuck off about whatever is happening here. In the living room is not only Osip, but
there are two other men. The odds aren’t bad now, three against two.
“Rafik,” Essie breathes next to me.
Looking down at her, I follow her attention toward the younger man. That must be Rostam’s
brother. He does look like a younger version of him. The older man is no doubt her father, especially
since she curls a bit closer to me the farther we make our way into the room.
“Arseny, please come in. I would like you to meet Mirac and Rafik. They claim that you’ve stolen
from them,” Osip announces.
It’s a lie.
“Stolen is such a harsh and accusatory word,” I say as I enter the room.
I watch as both men swing their gazes over to us. I know the instant that they realize Essie is at my
side. Mirac’s face turns an odd shade of purple. Personally, I keep my face completely
expressionless. Neither of these men needs to know an ounce of my feelings on this or any other
matter.
“What do you fucking call it?” Mirac barks.
I hum as if I’m thinking of a word to call what Essie did. His face turns a little darker shade of
purple. I wonder if he’s breathing at all at this point. I almost put him out of his misery and just
announce the contract but decide against it.
Fuck him.
“I call it a compromise of sorts. Essie is an adult. She came to me, and we made an agreement.”
Rafik takes a menacing step toward me, then another. He doesn’t stop until I hear Ruslan growl
behind me. Only then does he freeze in his tracks. He sucks in a breath, then presses his lips together
in a straight line.
“A compromise,” Mirac grinds out. “There is no compromise. She is my fucking property. She is
mine to sell.”
Sell.
The word is funny, considering that’s exactly what I’m going to do with her, but hearing him say it,
my entire fucking being instantly stands on edge. I want to fucking kill the bastard. I tamp down that
sensation.
I fight it.
Instead, I take a step backward, Essie still right next to me, my hand gripping hers. She’s not going
fucking anywhere, and this fuck is not going to take her from me. Not now, not fucking ever.
“What are you attempting to tell me?” Mirac asks.
I smirk. “I am not attempting to tell you anything. What I am telling you is that an agreement has
already been made.”
“It is null and void,” he snorts. “Nobody can sign her away except me.”
“False,” I murmur. “She can sign herself away, and she did.”
If he doesn’t fucking have a heart attack and die right here and now, I’ll be goddamn fucking
surprised. There is a moment of silence, then he takes a step toward me before he takes another.
Lucky for him, he stops before he’s too close, but Rafik is right behind him.
“She’s fucking mine. You promised me a young virgin bride,” he growls.
I think about keeping it serious, but instead, I burst out laughing. “She spent the night in my hotel
room, she’s coming home with me to West Hollywood. That’s that.”
“That’s fucking that?” Mirac asks.
“That is fucking that.”
Both of the men look at me, then all fucking hell explodes around us. Rafik pulls out a gun, I do the
fucking same, pointing it right at his fucking head. Fuck him. Fuck him and whatever the fuck he wants
to do with Essie.
I don’t know why, but I feel responsible for her. I don’t even really fucking know her. She jumped
into my car yesterday, and for whatever reason, I’ve decided that I’m going to keep her.
For work.
To make me money.
To sell herself for a profit.
That’s what I tell myself anyway. It’s only to make money, it doesn’t have to do with anything else.
Mirac is holding his own gun toward Ruslan, but it’s Osip who has his out and pointed at the back of
their heads.
“You better back the fuck up,” I grind out.
“She is not yours to have,” Mirac barks.
Then it’s Essie who takes a step forward. I try to hold her back, but she shakes my grip away. “I
am not someone to give away or even have. I am myself, and I am in charge of where the fuck I go.”
There is a moment of silence, then Mirac smiles. “Yes, you are. You are my property.”
Shaking my head, it’s my turn to laugh, almost hysterically. “She’s not. She’s mine,” I state.
“What?” Rafik barks.
“Signed, sealed, fucking delivered. She is mine.”
There is a moment of silence, then Mirac takes another step toward me. He doesn’t say anything
immediately. His purplish face is focused on a scowl. Then he lets out a growl, shaking his head.
 “You have no right,” he hisses. “None.”
It’s clear that he’s decided I’ve fucked her and ruined her. Good. I hope that’s exactly what he
thinks. He throws his hands up in the air, then turns to Rafik.
“We’re done here.”
Rafik doesn’t turn to him. He doesn’t even acknowledge him. Mirac doesn’t fucking exist. Instead,
he takes a step toward me, then another. He looks down at Essie, then slowly shifts his attention to
meet mine.
“We’re done… for now.”
Without another word, he walks away. But we are nowhere near fucking done. What we are, is in
a whole fucking mess. I can feel it fucking consume me. This motherfucker is going to be a goddamn
problem.
 C HAPTER 5

ESSIE

A rseny walks away from me and toward the two other men in the room. My father and Rafik had
already left, slamming the door behind them when they did. I would feel relief that they didn’t try
to drag me away with them, but I feel the exact opposite.
I feel guilty and anxious.
What happened this morning was most definitely not a resolution to anything. The way both Rafik
and my father looked at me, then looked at Arseny, I know that this is not going to end well. At least
for me. I’m sure that there is going to be some serious blowback from this. I just don’t know what it is
going to be yet.
Guilt swims in my belly as I watch Arseny, Osip, and Ruslan talk. Slowly, I make my way up to
their little huddle. Instead of thanking them for protecting me, I decide that this isn’t going to be worth
it. I am not worth it.
Clearing my throat, I stand a few feet away as I wait for them to recognize me. They slowly turn
around and look over to me. All of them have their brows raised as they stop talking and stare at me.
“I think that I did the wrong thing, and I should go back.”
“Excuse me?” Arseny asks.
Staring at them in silence for a long moment, I suck in a breath and start to speak again. “I should
go back,” I repeat.
“Why the fuck would you do that?” Arseny asks.
Osip and Ruslan don’t say a word. They share a glance between one another, then shift their
attention back to me. They clear their throats, taking a step backward as if to give Arseny and me the
illusion of space, but there is no space. They are listening intently.
“It’s too much danger. Whatever they’re planning on doing, and it will be something, it won’t
happen if I just go back.”
Arseny’s lips twitch into a small smile, it grows, and then he bursts out into laughter. “Malyshka,”
he murmurs. “This, what happened here, it wasn’t just about you.”
I blink a few times, looking behind Arseny to the men who are smiling as they watch this
exchange, completely unabashedly with full humorous expressions on their faces. They’re trying not
to laugh, it’s obvious, but I’m so confused as to why.
 “Part of this is because of you, part of it is because of me, but the rest of it is because of these
fucking Persians trying to take over our territory. It’s been happening since Osip got here. It’s been
happening for decades.”
I stare at him in complete disbelief, partially because he’s telling me that it doesn’t have to do
with me completely, that he’s somehow involved as well, and partially because he’s telling me
anything at all that has to do with their organizations.
Women aren’t supposed to know anything, absolutely nothing, and here he is telling me more than
I’ve ever heard before. I don’t know what to do, so I just stand here and stare.
Arseny chuckles then continues when I don’t respond to anything that he’s just said. “You can go
back to them, to that life if that’s what you want, but I’m going to make sure that you know it won’t
stop whatever is going to happen.”
“I don’t want anyone to get hurt because of me,” I say on a whispered breath.
Osip takes a step toward us, no longer hanging back to watch whatever show this is to him. He’s
still smiling as if he thinks that this whole situation is comical. I don’t think that it is, but I’m also not
a man in the Mafia, so there is that.
“None of this is because of you. We won’t make you stay. We won’t even hold you to the contract
that you willingly signed if you want to leave and go back right now. But you need to know that
nobody will be hurt because of you. This is much bigger than this incident.”
“Really?” I ask.
He nods his head, but it’s Arseny that takes a step toward me. He lifts his hand, cupping my cheek
when he does, blocking my view of Osip.
I don’t know if he does that purposely or not, but I have a feeling that he probably does. Men like
Arseny, like any of these men, every move that they make has a purpose.
“Really,” Arseny says, answering the question that I asked Osip.
He leans forward, his face so close to mine. I can smell him, almost kiss him, but he doesn’t make
a move to inch any closer, even though that’s what I want right now. I let out my breath slowly, and he
groans, then lifts his head.
“Make the decision that you want, I won’t hold you to the contract. But the minute we’re out of
city limits, I am enforcing it.”
It's really nice that he isn’t going to force me to do this contract that I signed just hours ago. But
that alone affirms that I’ve done the right thing. This is what my gut was telling me to do, so this is
exactly what I’m going to do.
“Fuck Mirac and Rafik. Fuck them both,” I say, my voice still softer than I intend it to be.
Arseny smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. He takes half a step backward, his face shifting,
but his eyes never leave mine. I don’t know what I expect him to say, but it isn’t what he actually says.
“Then you’ll fuck them by fucking other men, yeah?”
I’m a little taken aback by his words, but he’s right. The harsh reality is that it’s exactly what I’m
doing. Nodding my head, I jerk my chin upward and look into his eyes.
My confidence is false.
Completely false, the way he says fucking over my father and Rafik, but fucking other men, it
makes it sound really bad.
But isn’t it?
It is.
I was raised to stay pure, so pure that I’ve never even been kissed. My husband was supposed to
be the first to touch, kiss, to take any and almost every part of me. Here I am, willingly giving those
pieces of me that were supposed to be sacred to the highest bidder. Then after that, I’m going to give
them to complete strangers.
And all for money.
But not just money.
A taste of freedom too, and that makes it worth it all.

ARSENY

GETTING ready to leave Osip and Ruslan, I load Essie up in the car, close the door and turn to both
Osip and Ruslan, who are standing in front of me, their arms crossed over their chests and smirks on
their fucking faces. They both chuckle as they watch me.
“You are fucked,” Ruslan murmurs. “Trust me, from a man who is also fucked, you are fucked.”
“I have to agree,” Osip mutters.
Shaking my head, I narrow my gaze on them. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Essie,” they say in unison.
Ruslan clears his throat, then starts to tell me exactly what he’s thinking, but Osip interrupts him,
wearing a grin on his face. He doesn’t even try to hold back his laughter, not that I expect him to.
“You think that she’s just going to work for you. That you’ll be able to watch man after man take
her, fuck her, and cash the check? Come on, Arseny. Don’t bullshit us, yeah? That woman is by far
something more. You may not see it yet, but she is.”
Deciding to ignore them, because fuck them. I shake my head a couple of times, as if I’m shaking
their thoughts out of my fucking head. Inhaling a breath, I let it out slowly.
“You’ll keep me updated on everything?” I ask.
They each jerk their chins, but it’s Ruslan who takes a step toward me. “This shit, it’s gonna be all
good. We’ll let you know if we hear anything from her people, yeah?”
“And you’ll let me know if you need me to come up here and help in any way?” I ask.
He smiles, and Osip grunts, but neither of them confirms my question.
“Seriously,” I say. “You’ll let me know?”
“I’ll let you know,” Osip murmurs. “Go home before those two idiots come back here with some
stupid fucking plan in play, yeah?”
Shaking their hands, I thank them, then turn and head toward the driver’s side of the car. Slipping
into the front seat, I look over to Osip and Ruslan who are still watching me, and I give them a smirk
and a wave before I start the engine, switch it into reverse, and get the fuck out of NorCal.
The car ride is silent as we drive out of the city. When we’re on the interstate, the tall city
buildings behind us, I turn to Essie. “Let me know when you’re hungry for lunch, yeah?”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to eat again,” she whispers.
“Nervous?”
“Guilty, terrified, nervous, scared, all of the above,” she says.
I hum, then glance at her profile. She does look fucking terrified. I don’t tell her to relax or calm
down or any of that shit. All I do is give her a smile, then I decide there’s only one fucking way to
show her that this is the right choice.
Pacific Coast Highway.
It’s going to take longer this way, probably around nine hours or so, but it’s going to be worth it,
and, in the end, I don’t have anywhere I need to be today anyway. Everyone knows that I’m on my
way back, I’ll get to work tomorrow or the next day. I’ve already been gone far longer than I should
have been, and thankfully, most of my job can be handled virtually.
“Have you ever gone down the Pacific coast?” I ask.
She slowly turns to me, I can feel her eyes on my profile, but she doesn’t answer immediately. She
sucks in a breath, letting it out slowly, then begins to speak. When she does, I realize now that her
nervousness isn’t just about her new job, it’s about so much more than that.
“I’ve never been outside of the vicinity of San Jose before,” she says, her voice barely above a
whisper.
“Let’s go on an adventure then, malyshka.”
 C HAPTER 6

ESSIE

T hemyadventure that Arseny takes me on is spectacular. Each mile that we drive farther away from
father and Rafik, I feel as if my shoulders have lightened. The heaviness that has weighed me
down for the entirety of my life slowly vanishes.
The views are gorgeous, so that helps, and Arseny keeps my mind occupied as he tells me about
the places that we’re driving through. I don’t know what made him switch to this route, but I’m
grateful for it, because it’s perfect.
We stop for lunch, then walk around a small town to stretch our legs before we get back in the car
for the rest of the drive to Los Angeles. I end up telling Arseny too much about myself. He now knows
that I like to read and paint, which are hobbies that I’ve always kept to myself in the past.
“Why don’t you tell people about these hobbies of yours?” he asks.
“My father frowned on them,” I admit.
Arseny doesn’t say anything right away. I don’t know if he’s gathering his thoughts or his words,
but when he does speak, it surprises me.
“The arts are important for development. I can’t understand why he would deny this. Being
knowledgeable and able to hold a conversation about such things is important for a partner. Doesn’t it
make you more marketable?” he asks.
Marketable.
The word makes me want to cringe and laugh all at the same time. I hate it, but he’s not wrong.
Why wouldn’t my father want me to be marketable as a wife? If he wanted me to marry up to benefit
himself, wouldn’t he want me to be intelligent? Wouldn’t he want me to be desired not only in body
but also in mind?
“He only wanted me pure. That was all that mattered to him,” I admit on a whisper. “He had a
tutor school me, but I didn’t learn the same things that are taught in public school.”
“How do you know?” Arseny asks.
Looking down at my lap, I clear my throat and shift in my seat uneasily. “I would befriend other
girls who were in school, ask them what it was like. I wanted to be like every other normal girl.”
“Girls like you, they are not normal, malyshka. You must realize this,” he murmurs.
“It doesn’t mean that I didn’t want to be. That I didn’t dream of being normal,” I say.
 He nods his head a few times, then I feel his hand wrap around my knee, and he squeezes it gently.
“It’s not meant to be any kind of insult. You are not normal because you are part of this underworld,
you are not part of the regular world up above. You’re down here with us, in the trenches, in the filth
and grime.”
“I’ve never done anything wrong in all my life,” I whisper.
He laughs softly, though I can tell that he isn’t necessarily laughing at me, but rather he thinks that
I’m funny or maybe even cute. I hope it’s cute, although it shouldn’t matter what he thinks of me
because I am not with him, he is not with me, and it will never happen. Even if I think he’s the sexiest
man I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Doesn’t matter, Essie. You could be the purest woman in the entire organization, but you’re still
attached to us, born in the underbelly. You are part of the underworld and there is no escaping it
completely.”
That’s sad really. I don’t say that though. Instead, I turn toward the passenger window and watch
all the pretty landscapes pass by. I think about what Arseny said, and he’s right. I am not normal.
Who stays pure, locked up, and secluded in their own home so that their father can essentially sell
them off to the best opportunity that suits him?
Not normal, average, everyday people, that’s for damn sure.
I’m not, nor have I ever been normal, and I never will be, either. I’m running from an arranged
marriage, made a contract to sell my virginity for money, and I’m going to be a prostitute until I have
enough money saved to do something else or retire.
Shit.
This is my real life and if I told any random person on the street about it, they would probably
look at me like I have two heads. So, he’s right, I’ve never been normal, and I never will be. I was
not meant to be. I was not born into a world where I could ever be and that is something I need to just
accept.

ARSENY

ESSIE IS quiet the rest of the drive to Hollywood, then she eventually falls asleep. Turning up the
radio, I think about the conversation as I continue to make my way toward home.
I also think about what Osip and Ruslan said. That I won’t be able to go through with the deal,
with the agreement to have her as one of my girls, to sell her virginity. They don’t know me, not
really. They don’t know who I am and what I’m capable of.
I cannot deny that I want to fuck her. She intrigues me, but she’s also only eighteen years old. I’ve
lived a whole fucking lifetime while she’s been locked away in her bedroom, in her father’s home,
and told what to do and how to think.
Clearing my throat, I shift in my seat and decide that I need to just let all of that shit go. There is
no way I’m fucking her. I’m going to stick to the terms of the signed contract and call it a fucking day.
I can’t have her. She’s not mine to have, and that is probably why my cock aches for her. For that
simple reason that she isn’t mine to have. Once I get home, I can fuck someone else, a few someones,
and I’ll feel better.
Several more hours pass before we reach West Hollywood West. When we pull into the Los
Angeles area, I realize that I have no place for Essie set up. I haven’t even called my woman in
charge yet.
I run the girls, I create the schedules, get the guards scheduled as well, and I do the background
checks. However, for the day-to-day household things that go with having almost twenty whores, I
have a woman that runs the actual houses. And since Essie would need to stay at one of the houses
until she is on her feet and has money, I need to contact Inga.
So, for the first time, I take a woman to my home. She can stay there until permanent arrangements
are made. I’ve never had a woman in my space before. I supposed that this is not much different than
taking her back to my hotel room last night, except this is my personal home, the place that I go to
unwind and relax, my sanctuary.
Pulling into my driveway, I touch the garage door button and slip into the space, then turn the
engine off as the garage door shuts completely. Turning to Essie, I give her a smile. She shifts her
attention from staring out the window to me.
“We’ll go in, I’ll order some dinner, we can relax from the long drive, and then tomorrow I’ll take
you to where you’ll be living. I don’t have any accommodations set up for you yet. I’ll start on that
tonight, and we’ll get you settled in tomorrow, yeah?”
“Okay,” she says.
“Essie?” I call out as she opens the passenger door.
She’s got one foot out of the car, along with half of her body. She stops and turns toward me, her
scared gaze finding mine. Then she clears her throat before she speaks. I think that she’s going to back
out of the whole thing. That I’m going to have to figure out how to send her ass back up north, because
I am not going back up there anytime soon unless I absolutely fucking have to.
“That sounds good, Arseny. I’m just nervous and tired,” she says.
Reaching across the car to her, I can’t touch her face or her neck, which is something I also can’t
stop fucking doing, and I need to. I do wrap my fingers around her forearm and squeeze gently.
“Don’t be nervous. I vow that I will take care of you. In any and every way that you need. You
have my protection,” I murmur.
I should not vow this, not to someone in her position, but I can’t help myself. Osip and Ruslan
were right. I am seriously fucking myself with this girl. I like her. I can’t do anything more though, I
cannot allow it.
She is my employee. She is contracted with the Bratva for a service, and it is not to please me or
to be mine in any way. She is an employee and after tonight, I will probably forget she even exists.
Once I get to work, once she gets to work, it will all just disappear.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
Walking into the house, I show her where her room is located, then I take my phone out of my
pocket and call Inga.
“Are you back?” she asks as her greeting.
Inga is gorgeous, a former call girl herself. She has taken on the role of madam to help me out, but
also because she was not ready to completely walk away from the world, or the life that she had. Inga
likes money, and this is the only way she can continue to earn it in the amounts she wishes to earn.
“I am back, and I have brought someone with me.”
There is a moment of silence, then she hums. “What have you brought me? I assume you are telling
me because it’s someone that you have brought to me?”
Laughing softly, I clear my throat. “Eighteen-year-old virgin who would like to sell that pesky
virginity and work for us for an undetermined amount of time.”
“You joke?” she asks.
 “I do not joke about work, Inga. You know this. Ten percent goes to Osip.”
She hums, then I hear some shuffling around. “I do know this. When do I meet her?”
“Arrange living quarters for her, and I will bring her to the office in the morning, yeah?”
“See you at nine,” she snaps before she ends the call.
I laugh to myself, then make another phone call and order some dinner for us. I’m fucking
exhausted and starving. Food and vodka, then bed. I need this little distraction away from me as soon
as possible, if not, then that pesky virginity will be no more.
 C HAPTER 7

ESSIE

S tepping out of the bathroom, there is another glossy bag right in the middle of the bed. Looking
around, I tiptoe to the bag and look inside. Another outfit, and underwear, and pajamas.
Taking the cami and short set out, I let out a sigh. Agent Provocateur again. It’s absolutely
stunning, sexy, soft, it’s everything.
I’ve never felt anything like this before. I don’t know how this man picks out anything this sexy,
but he does, and it’s amazing. Brushing my hair, I twist it up into a bun and wrap a silk scrunchie
around it, then head out of the bedroom and into the living room.
Making my way to the kitchen, I look around and see Arseny standing in the middle of the room,
his hip against the island, his head tipped down as he looks at his phone. There are a couple bags in
front of him, and I can smell something delicious.
Slowly, Arseny lifts his head, his eyes finding mine. He arches a brow, then clears his throat.
“Hungry?” he asks.
Sinking my teeth into my bottom lip, I nod my head a couple of times. “Starving.”
He clears his throat, then jerks his chin. “Plate it, and I’ll get some drinks.”
Nodding my head, I walk over to a cabinet, and thankfully, I find plates in just the second place I
look. Taking two out, I walk over to the small breakfast table and set them down. Then go in search of
silverware. I open three drawers before I find them.
By the time I grab silverware and napkins, Arseny is at the table with a glass of what looks like
wine and something clear.
“I don’t drink,” I murmur.
He chuckles, then leans forward and gives me a wink. “You are no longer part of that world,
Essie. Unless you’re overly religious, in that case, I have a feeling your new profession may be a
problem?”
Sitting down in my very small pajamas, I look around and realize that he’s right. Rules that were
made to preserve. But then, my life isn’t the way that it was meant to be, the way that it was supposed
to be, the way that I was raised for it to be. I’m not the girl that I was a few days ago.
My mind is super jumbled, it’s racing a mile a minute, then I decide to just go with my gut. Lifting
the drink to my lips, I take a sip. My eyes widen and I turn to look at Arseny, who is just watching me,
a smile playing on his lips.
“You’re a bad girl, Essie.”
“I am,” I whisper.
He leans in and lifts his hand, touching the tip of my nose. “You are, and I have a feeling that
you’re going to have a fucking blast.”
I want to believe him, I want to think that I’m going to have a blast, but at the same time, I am still
in complete disbelief that this is real. That this is going to happen. That I’m going to be a whore.
“You’re only a whore if that’s what you think of yourself as.”
I can’t believe that I said that out loud. My face heats and I lift my hands, touching my cheeks,
trying to cool them off. I’m sure that they’re bright red. Arseny thankfully doesn’t say anything about
my likely red face, and he starts taking things out of the food bag.
“Russian food,” he murmurs. “You’ll like it.”
So, for the rest of the evening, Arseny tells me about each dish that he ordered. He tells me how
it’s made, and I break some food rules along with continuing to break alcohol rules as he does.
It should feel so wrong, except sitting here with him feels so right, and that’s when I know that I
need to run from him. I ran from Rafik, from Mirac, to gain my freedom and independence. I cannot do
that if I fall for this man across from me. I refuse to fall for this man.
Completely refuse.
Clearing my throat, I take another sip from the wineglass in front of me, then I take another pastry
filled with meat. I love it all. I feel wild and sexy. I don’t know what I’m going to feel like after I’ve
sold myself, but so far, I am loving this new life of mine.

ARSENY

MY COCK IS hard as a fucking rock. No matter how many times I jack off, the second that I think about
Essie sleeping in the room next to mine, wearing that sexy as fuck silk number that I bought her, I’m
hard again.
Fuck, I should not have bought her sexy underwear. What I should have done is buy her a damn
oversized fucking T-shirt. Maybe some of those granny panties or some shit. Cursing, I imagine her
wearing my T-shirt and even the panties, then realize I’m fucked no matter what.
Wrapping my hand around my cock, I stroke myself. Fuck. My cock is going to be raw, and my
balls are going to be fucking empty and sucked dry by the time I finally fall asleep tonight. Once I
come again, and again, I am sweaty and finally fucking exhausted when my phone rings.
Reaching for the device, I slide my thumb across the screen before I place it to my ear. “Inga,” I
groan.
“Busy?” she asks.
Laughing softly, I sit up and tug the sheet over my waist. “I’m not.”
“I’ve found suitable housing for her, but it will not be ready for another month.”
“Month?” I hiss.
She hums. “Will this be a problem?”
I want to tell her that it’s going to be a problem for my fucking balls and my raw dick, but I don’t
say either. Staring at the wall, I try not to think about living with her for a whole fucking month. Living
with her and not fucking her. Instead, I let out a sigh, then clear my throat before I speak.
 “It will not. But what is the reason?”
“We’re full, Arseny. We have an absolutely full house. You’ve done too good of a job,” she says.
Her voice is stern, but I can tell that she is impressed. Not only have I brought in whores, but I’ve
also kept them. Well, we have kept them.
“I can’t even be upset with that,” I say. “She can stay here at my place until it’s time. She has
some prepping and training to do as well until I find her first match.”
She doesn’t say anything immediately, she does hum, and I’m sure that she feels some kind of way,
but she’s professional and doesn’t actually say how she feels.
“I will send Lada to help her.”
I understand exactly why she’s saying exactly what she’s saying. She doesn’t want me to spoil the
goods. She’s not wrong. That’s exactly what I would do if I could. But I can’t. My job here is to find
the right client for the services that she’s providing and ensure that she is exactly as described to said
client.
Meaning. A virgin. She must be a virgin. And my clients will be very particular if they’re paying
what they’re paying for said virgin. She needs to be as inexperienced as she already is. My client,
whoever I choose, will expect her to be shy and sweet.
He will not want a seductress of any kind, he will want to be the teacher. It will be what he
demands, what he looks forward to, what he’s paying for.
How do I know this? Because it’s what I would want. It’s exactly what I would want from her.
What I imagine of her.
“Send Lada first thing in the morning,” I bark.
“I’ll send her before our meeting,” Inga states, then ends the call.
I smile at the phone before sending a text to Kazimir.

BACK IN TOWN.

KAZIMIR: COME TO MY OFFICE FIRST THING.

MEETING WITH INGA THEN HEADED TO YOU.

KAZIMIR: YOU CAN TELL ME ALL ABOUT THE GIRL.

Fuck.
He knows.
Though I don’t know why I’m the least bit surprised. Osip probably called him before I was even
outside of the city limits. So, I’m not shocked at all that Kazimir knows what’s going on. I’m more
surprised that he hasn’t contacted me sooner.
Natasha, his wife, runs the financial part of the brothel. She enjoys the work, and it frees me up to
do the other parts of the business, but that means that I have to discuss what is about to happen with
her.
Texting Kazimir back, I decide to have him bring her along.

HAVE NATASHA COME?

KAZIMIR: SHE’LL BE THERE.

It doesn’t surprise me. They are joined at the hip as much as possible. They’re completely and
totally in love. A marriage of love if there ever was one. Even though I know it did not necessarily
start out that way.
I should not be jealous. I’ve never wanted to be married. The devotion, the idea of love, the same
woman over and over, and children have never appealed to me… I’ve always wanted complete
freedom from that kind of life.
Until now.
Until fucking now.
Until Essie.
 C HAPTER 8

ESSIE

A fter a restless sleep, I roll out of bed, shower, and change into another beautiful outfit. Once I'm
dressed, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I don’t look like as much of a mess today as I did
yesterday. I’m not as tired looking, not as defeated looking either. But I feel that way.
Making my way into the living room, I pause to listen for any sounds of movement. Making my
way into the kitchen, I notice a piece of paper on the island. My name is scrawled on the front.
Opening it, I look at the note. It’s written in crisp, neat, block lettering.

ESSIE
A WOMAN NAMED LADA WILL COME BY AND HELP YOU WITH WHATEVER
YOU NEED. I WILL BE AT WORK AND MEETINGS ALL DAY.
-ARSENY

I’m not sure why, but the fact that I’m not going to see him all day makes me sad. It shouldn’t. I
don’t even really know him, but then again, he’s the only person I know in any capacity here. Folding
the note up, I take it back into my bedroom and slip it inside one of the glossy bags. I don’t know why
I want to keep it, but I do.
That’s a lie.
I know exactly why I want to keep it, but it doesn’t matter. Hurrying back into the kitchen, I grab a
banana and a glass of water. I can’t believe that I drank last night. Closing my eyes, I let the memory
of the dinner surround me. I felt things inside of my body that I’ve never felt before.
It was beautiful, amazing, and heartbreaking.
Heartbreaking because I can’t have him and even if I could, he doesn’t want me back. I am his
employee. I am a whore, nothing else. Sucking in a breath, I jump slightly when I hear the front door
open.
Then a gorgeous woman walks through that front door. Not just gorgeous, she’s stunning. She
looks like she was built out of marble. Her body is perfect, her hair too. Then there’s her makeup. I
look like a little girl next to her.
She stops in front of me, one brow arched as she looks me up and down.
 “I am Lada,” she announces. She has a very faint accent, it’s not even as strong as Arseny’s, but it
is there, and it makes her even sexier.
“Essie,” I say softly, introducing myself.
Her lips curve up into a grin. “You are pretty,” she states. “Arseny sent me to transform and teach
you.”
“Teach me?” I ask.
She laughs softly, and the simple shift and softening in her expression makes her even more
beautiful. I start to ask her what exactly she’ll be teaching me when Lada closes the distance between
us, then reaches out and takes my hand in hers.
“Nothing too wild. Just a few things to expect, and also how to present yourself. Real, more
serious teaching and training will come after.”
“After?” I ask.
She hums. “See this? Your naivety? It’s beautiful, and this is what a man will wish to possess. I
cannot ruin that. So, after.”
Instantly, I lift my hand to my stomach as it flips and clenches at the same time. She means after I
have sex. After I sell my virginity. Then I realize that she wants me to be completely lost in what’s
going to happen, that whoever this person is who pays for my virginity wants that.
“Men are stupid,” she announces. “But at the same time, you’re selling something extremely
valuable that you can only sell once, he wants to think that he’s got the best deal and if you’re too…
worldly, then he won’t feel like he’s got the best bang for his buck.”
“It’s like a game,” I whisper.
She hums, tugging me behind her slightly as she starts to walk toward the front door. “It’s not like
a game. It is a game. He thinks he’s the lion and you’re the gazelle.”
“But?”
Lada turns and looks over her shoulder at me, her brow arching slightly as she does. “You are a
lioness. You’ve taken control of yourself and your body. You’re only giving him the illusion that he’s
in control. The reality is that you are in charge, Essie. You are a fucking lioness.”
I’m not sure if her words should make me feel confident, sexy, and beautiful, but they do.
Together, we walk out of the house and toward her red sports car. I don’t know what kind it is, but it’s
sleek and sexy as sin.
I love it and I decide that one day, I’m going to be like Lada.

ARSENY

INGA STARES BACK AT ME, her hard expression giving me absolutely nothing. I’m not sure if she
disapproves of the situation with Essie or not. She’s giving me a completely blank look. I almost
laugh but decide against it. I don’t really have time to spar with her today, I have to figure this shit
out, then head to Kazimir’s place.
“You have a problem with this?” I ask.
She shifts in her chair, then clears her throat. “Problem? Not so much,” she says, but doesn’t go
any further. I wait, knowing that she definitely has something on her mind. Then she clears her throat
and leans forward slightly before she begins to speak. “This girl, why sell her when you can keep her,
yes? You need a wife, Arseny.”
 My lips twitch into a smile. She’s right. I would keep her if I thought that it was what either of us
wanted. But it’s clear to me, Essie has made it very clear that she wants her freedom, and me? I don’t
know that I want the commitment of a wife.
“I may need one, but I don’t want one. It’s too much to devote,” I admit.
Inga is the only person I would say this to out loud. She knows me, has known me for years. She
understands that I am not the devoted family man kind of person. She knows how I was raised. I was
the child of a whore.
I may like the idea of what Kazimir, Osip, and Ruslan have with their women, but I wouldn’t
know how to make that life for myself. I’ve never known anything like it before. If I marry, it will be
open, it will be free. It will be with someone that I have no attachments to, no need to control. No
desire to control.
That person is not Essie.
I want to lock her away and fuck her until she can’t walk, then fuck her a few more times, then kill
anyone who dares to even think of her.
So, it cannot be her.
“The room will be ready within the month. I will let you know when it is. Lada will bring her to
me tomorrow, once they have finished their shopping and whatever else she has planned. I will begin
her training. She will be here every day until you have secured her match and until the calendar date
of her appointment.”
“Yes, Inga,” I grunt.
“I’ll leave you to your work, but Arseny?” she calls out.
Lifting my head, I look across the room at her. She’s already made her way to the door, and this
should not surprise me, but the woman is damn fast. Clearing my throat, I dip my chin in
acknowledgment.
“Think about this, yes? Think about this one. She is already in your home, and it is very clear she
is under your skin. You’ve saved her for a reason.”
Without another word, she turns from me and walks away. I watch her go, wondering if she’s
right. Did Essie slip into my car for a reason? Was it truly convenience, being in the right moment at
the right time, or was it more? Was it fate?
Smirking, I pull up my customers’ files. It’s all encrypted and shit, some fancy fucking shit that I
had set up just in case the cops raided me. I paid a mint for it, so it better do exactly as it’s intended.
All it takes is one wrong fingerprint to attempt to gain access to a file, and everything is completely
destroyed.
I have a file specifically for men seeking virgins. It’s a very lucrative market and these men are
willing to pay top dollar because it’s not every day a virgin wants to sell that piece of her for money.
There are five men who have been waiting the longest for this particular moment. To have a virgin
of their own. I’m sure that I could keep Essie to myself, selfishly I want to do just that. Except, there’s
the niggling feeling that I know neither of us will be happy. She will not be free, and I will not be the
man she needs or wants. I am just a different version of Rafik, cut from the same fucking cloth.
Pulling up the first man, I read his file. He’s fifty years old, an extremely successful business
executive, and has a very impressive financial statement. He’s been a client of mine for well over a
year, there have been zero complaints filed against him. He seems like a good option.
Then I pull up the next man. Then the next. I narrow the choices down to two. I read over their
files several times and can’t decide which one I want to offer the opportunity to. So, instead of
making that decision myself, I call them and set up a meeting with them for later in the week.
 I’ll interview them and let them bid against one another. Let the man with the most money win. I
tell myself that this is so Essie will get the most that she possibly can from the once-in-a-lifetime
opportunity.
What I don’t do is focus on the fact that I want it to be me.
Leaving my office, I head straight for Kazimir.
 C HAPTER 9

ESSIE

“I feelLada
stupid,” I announce.
smiles, shaking her head a couple of times. We’re shopping in some really fancy part of
Los Angeles. Lada said the name as if it was supposed to mean something to me, but it didn’t.
Melrose Avenue. It means nothing, but as people walk around and take pictures, I assume it’s
something special and very expensive.
Also, I’m standing in a short white silk slip with a matching lace and silk robe wrapped around
my body.
“It’s not stupid. You look sweet,” she says.
“Sweet?” I ask. “I don’t want to look sweet. This isn’t sexy at all. It also feels very bridal,” I say
as my fingers rub the edge of the silk robe at my thigh.
Lada hums then stands from her lounge chair and takes a step toward me, then another. She lifts
her hand, gently grabbing hold of my chin and forcing it up slightly so that I have to look down my
nose in order to look up into her eyes.
“Essie,” she snaps. “You are sweet. You’re a virgin. You know absolutely nothing of this world,
and that is what is appealing to these men. If they wanted a hardened whore, they would go to one and
save themselves a lot of fucking money and time. What we are offering is more than what is between
our legs. They can get that anywhere. This is different.”
Pressing my lips together, she releases her hold on me, her arm falling to her side. I roll my lips
together a few times, then turn to look at my reflection in the mirror. I don’t know how Lada does it,
but she makes me feel special and beautiful all at the same time.
“You have the power here, Essie. Do not think that you don’t. We are special, they come to us for
more than just sex.”
Shifting my attention from the mirror, I look over to her and arch a brow. I don’t believe her, but
I’m willing to listen. She laughs softly, then shakes her head. “They come to us for the fantasy. We
give them something they can never get elsewhere. It’s why they don’t just run to a five-dollar
whore.”
“I don’t think that I can do that. Give them a fantasy at least.”
She hums, then slides up beside me and looks at me through the reflection of the mirror. “Darling.
You are the fantasy. You are young and beautiful. You are sweet and soft. You will make him think that
he has complete control over you, all the while, you will be controlling him, and he will fall to your
feet in worship.”
I shake my head and open my mouth to deny her words. I am young, I am not beautiful. I am soft,
but mainly because I don’t exercise as much as I should. “I will teach you, Essie. You will be
prepared.”
And with that, she turns from me and walks out of the fitting room. I watch as she makes her way
over to a sales associate and just starts moving her arms around and pointing at things. I decide to go
ahead and get dressed. I don’t think that she has anything else that she wants me to try on here… a de-
virgining outfit was the most important thing she said.
Slipping back into the dressing room, I put my clothes back on, and by the time I’m finished, Lada
appears in front of the doorway, a big smile on her face. I stare at her, blinking for a moment, then
clear my throat and take a step toward her.
“They will package everything up and have it delivered to Arseny’s house. Let’s keep going. The
spa is waiting.”
“Spa?” I ask.
She nods her head. “Nothing crazy, a day of beauty. A good deep conditioning, cut, and style. A
little makeup tutorial. A massage, and a clay mud bath. It’s going to be fun. Then we’ll eat lunch and
get clothes.”
I almost ask her if this is something we should do after clothes shopping but decide against it.
She’s got a plan and I’m just along for the ride at this point. So, I follow behind Lada, and I have a
completely full day of beauty treatments and clothes and shoe shopping. All of which we don’t even
have to carry, because every single store offers delivery service to Arseny’s home.
I don’t understand it. Is this what it’s like to be rich? My father wasn’t poor, he was probably
classified as rich. Everything that I had seemed good quality, and he made a big deal about fancy cars
and jewelry, but I wasn’t allowed to shop for myself.
I have no idea how these things work, but I do remember my father’s wives coming into the house
with shopping bags. They never had a store deliver unless they purchased something online.
My life is completely different than it was just a few days ago, and I don’t know if I’ll ever get
used to it, but today, I like it. Feels good to have someone like Lada at my side. Also, she’s sweet and
fun, plus she keeps my mind off of Arseny.

ARSENY

KAZIMIR SMIRKS at me from across his desk. Natasha has her head tipped down as she looks at the
iPad in her lap. She’s biting her bottom lip and trying not to smile. That much is obvious. I don’t call
her on it, instead, I stare at Kazimir, who is focused on me, his head tilted to the side and his smirk
unwavering.
“Spit it out,” I demand.
“You think you’ll be able to sell her to the highest bidder? She’s living in your house, inches from
your bed, and from what I heard, she’s beautiful.”
Feeling the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention, I lean forward and let out a growl.
“I’m surrounded by beautiful women every fucking day,” I snap.
Another random document with
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of L'apparition : roman
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Title: L'apparition : roman

Author: Lucie Delarue-Mardrus

Release date: September 15, 2023 [eBook #71658]

Language: French

Original publication: Paris: Ferenczi, 1921

Credits: Laurent Vogel, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK

L'APPARITION : ROMAN ***
 TABLE DES CHAPITRES

L’Apparition
Tous droits de traduction et reproduction réservés pour tous pays.
Copiright by J. Ferenczi, 1921.

LUCIE DELARUE-MARDRUS

L’Apparition
ROMAN

PARIS
J. FERENCZI, EDITEUR
9, RUE ANTOINE-CHANTIN (XIVᵉ)

L’APPARITION
 I

LA RENCONTRE DANS LE PARC

Laurent Carmin entr’ouvrit la porte de la salle à manger et vit sa mère en

discussion avec un de ses fermiers.
Maître Casimir voulait des réparations locatives. Mᵐᵉ Carmin répondait
qu’il n’y avait pas urgence. Laurent referma la porte.
De telles démarches se renouvelaient, au château, de la part des
herbagers; mais ils repartaient presque toujours sans obtenir satisfaction, car
Mᵐᵉ Carmin était Normande comme eux, et bien plus forte qu’eux.
On l’admire pour cela dans le pays, et aussi pour ses biens, qui sont
nombreux, espacés les uns des autres, des grands et des petits, fermes et
manoirs, pressoirs, herbages et bois-taillis.
—A qui cela appartient-il?
Réponse presque toujours la même:
—Est à Mâme Carmin.
Il y a de ces marquises de Carabas en Normandie, car les traditions de
l’ancien temps n’y ont guère souffert du renversement des rois.
Le château, ancien et restauré, noble et charmant, s’entourait d’un parc
mal entretenu par économie. L’église du village, située presque dans ce
parc, avait l’air d’une dépendance. Il était, au milieu de la grande pelouse,
une pièce d’eau sur laquelle naviguaient deux cygnes. Un saule pleureur se
mirait.
Allées profondes, fourrés épais, clairières, une étendue qui semblait
n’avoir de limites que les horizons bleus et mauves, venait s’achever au
pied du perron, quatre marches et leur belle rampe de pierre. Et tout cela,
qui écrasait l’humble village, c’était bien la seigneurie d’autrefois,
orgueilleuse, isolée au milieu de champs à l’infini, très loin des villes.
Au-dedans, un meuble disparate faisait se côtoyer la camelote moderne
avec de précieuses choses. Le grand salon montrait des housses, un lustre
de cristal, une pendule Restauration sous globe, des stores de soie
bouillonnés, quelques portraits de famille. Le feu de bois de l’immense
cheminée y répandait un charme en hiver; la lumière verte des arbres y
jetait, l’été, sa mélancolie campagnarde.
En bas, il y avait encore, trop grande, claire, la cuisine et sa dinanderie
du vieux temps, la salle à manger brune et sombre, tapissée de verdures
admirables, la salle d’étude avec son tableau noir, la salle de billard toujours
fermée, un petit salon et ses fauteuils de tapisserie criarde, le vestibule et les
couloirs à vitraux polychromes, sans compter la seconde cuisine, la
buanderie, l’office et la lingerie. En haut, les chambres sentaient la cretonne
et le pitchpin; mais certaines avaient mobilier d’acajou, ciels de lit et
rideaux à fleurs, qui furent le décor des grand’mères.
Mᵐᵉ Carmin de Bonnevie, méticuleusement, continuait là-dedans
l’existence sans histoire des siens. Etre veuve de bonne heure, pour une
femme comme elle, c’est se faire, à trente ans, dévote, comme sous Louis
XIV, ce qui veut dire être habillée de noir et vouée à la piété, choses qui
n’empêchent en rien de veiller âprement sur l’argent.
Nerveuse et sèche, ses cheveux noirs, lisses, chignon sans grâce, son
teint jaune de vieille fille, ses yeux bruns, assez beaux, chargés d’austérité,
rien, ni ses habitudes d’ordre et d’épargne, ni son habillement, ni le genre
de petits chapeaux étriqués, monopole de la province, qu’elle perchait sur sa
tête pour aller à la messe, rien en elle n’indiquait qu’elle eût une passion
dans la vie.
Elle en avait une, cependant. C’est la seule qu’on juge légitime chez les
femmes. Elle a pourtant la violence et toute l’animalité des autres. Mᵐᵉ de
Bonnevie aimait son fils, secrètement, on peut dire, ne voulant rien montrer
à ce garçon, ni aux autres, de sa faiblesse cachée. Etant chef de famille
depuis plus de cinq ans, elle tâchait de l’élever dignement, afin d’en faire un
homme selon son goût, un vrai successeur des hobereaux qui l’avaient
engendré, un vrai Carmin de Bonnevie, gentilhomme-fermier qui soigne ses
terres, accomplit ses devoirs religieux, chasse au fusil, joue au billard, fonde
une famille de deux enfants au plus, et meurt, après une existence si bien
remplie, convenablement, comme il a vécu.

Laurent acheva de refermer tout doucement la porte qu’il avait

entr’ouverte. Il avait vu ce qu’il voulait voir.
C’était un garçon de douze ans à peu près, droit sur ses reins, bien fait,
tourbillonnant. Ses joues rondes, son nez parfaitement enfantin, ses cheveux
noirs, paquet de boucles sur le front, lui conservaient, à cet âge, sa
physionomie de petit bébé tout brun; et rien n’était puéril comme sa voix
trop haute, cette voix qui chantait le dimanche à l’église, angéliquement.
Mais le charmant enfant de chœur, parmi ces traits encore indécis, possédait
le regard le plus audacieux, une paire d’eux gris sombre, enfoncés et larges,
étincelants et rapprochés; sa bouche épaisse, d’un rouge violent, accusait
encore l’énergie formidable de son petit menton; et, cachée sous les
boucles, la forme bien particulière de son front montrait deux bosses
arrondies, vraies petites cornes de faune, prêtes à percer la peau tendue et
lisse.
Depuis sa naissance, presque, la maman luttait contre lui.
Il avait commencé par enfoncer ses quatre dents, à dix mois, dans le sein
de sa nourrice, au point que cette femme n’avait plus voulu de lui. Dès ses
premiers pas, ses caprices, destructions, cris, trépignements, coups à ceux
qui le portaient, s’étaient multipliés jusqu’à remplir tout le grand château de
sa petite présence atroce. De sept à dix ans, se roulant par terre au moindre
mot, crachant à la figure des gens ou leur jetant les objets à la tête, mordant
comme un petit fauve, injuriant et taquinant tout le monde, ses férocités
avaient bouleversé la famille et la domesticité. Et maintenant qu’il sortait de
la première enfance, on ne savait pas trop où s’exerçaient ses ravages,
puisqu’il disparaissait dans le parc à la moindre occasion, pour le
soulagement général, du reste.
Malgré tout cela, pourtant, on l’aimait. Il était si sain et si beau! Son rire
était si frais! Cette enfance turbulente était la vie même du grand château
mélancolique.
Cependant, offrant à Dieu la peine inouïe qu’elle se donnait pour élever
ce mauvais sujet, la mère, malgré tout son orgueil d’avoir un fils, regrettait
parfois, sans oser se l’avouer à elle-même, qu’il ne fût pas plutôt une fille.
Mais la mauvaise foi maternelle reprenait vite la parole:
—Il est trop bien portant, c’est tout. Il deviendra plus traitable avec
l’âge... Tous les garçons, c’est connu, sont difficiles à élever... Son père
avait mauvaise tête aussi, mais bon cœur.

Il courait, son canif au poing. Son canif était le seul instrument d’étude
qu’il aimât. L’ouvrir et le fermer le distrayait quand, le mardi et le samedi,
l’instituteur de l’école venait lui donner sa leçon, ou bien pendant qu’au
presbytère M. le curé, seul à seul, chaque mardi, l’interrogeait sur le
catéchisme et le latin.
Ce canif, il l’avait détourné de ses destinées ennuyeuses pour en faire un
joujou passionnant. Tailler des crayons, quelle bêtise! Mais fabriquer des
arcs et des flèches dans le sous-bois, poignarder les pêches et les poires des
espaliers quand François a le dos tourné, couper en quatre les vers de terre,
amputer les grenouilles, et, lorsqu’il faut rester à la maison, taillader
clandestinement le bord des meubles du salon, lancer la lame dans la
planche à repasser, pour l’épouvante de Maria quand elle est à la lingerie,
ou bien hacher furieusement les beaux légumes de Clémentine à ses
fourneaux, voilà l’emploi vrai d’un canif...
Son néfaste jouet dans la main, il bondit de toute son âme, ivre de cette
récréation illicite qu’il vient de s’octroyer.
—Quand maman va revenir à la salle d’études...
Il rit. Il rit d’être dehors pendant qu’il fait si beau, rit d’avoir, avant de
les quitter, donné des coups de pied dans ses livres et ses cahiers jetés par
terre, rit du bon tour qu’il joue à tout le monde en se sauvant dans le parc,
alors qu’on le croit à son pupitre, apprenant ses déclinaisons.
En passant comme le vent devant la plate-bande inculte où le mois de
juin triomphe:
—Rosa la rose!... crie-t-il à pleins poumons.
Sa voix aiguë a déchiré l’air, cri d’hirondelle. Le voilà déjà loin. Ses
jambes nues de petit garçon musclé l’emportent, tout son corps dessine des
lignes dansantes sous le jersey du costume marin qu’il porte.
Le voilà dans la pépinière où sont rassemblées les essences rares.
Brusque, il s’arrête, obéissant à son désir soudain. Vite, ouvrons le cher
canif. D’un seul coup, la lame, vigoureusement maniée, s’enfonce dans
l’écorce tendre du premier petit arbre. Il l’arrache et recommence.
—Tiens!... Voilà pour toi!... Tiens!... Voilà encore pour toi!
Une fureur joyeuse l’anime. Il voudrait que l’arbre se défendît. Il
voudrait se battre.
—C’est toi, Laurent?... Qu’est-ce que tu fais là?
Il s’est retourné. L’oncle Jacques est là, qui le regarde.
L’oncle Jacques est le frère de maman. Il s’appelle comme elle: Carmin
de Bonnevie. Car papa et maman étaient cousins. L’oncle habite depuis
toujours un petit pavillon dans le parc. Laurent sait comme on le considère
à la maison. Il est célibataire et riche. Parrain et tuteur de Laurent, dont il a
choisi le nom sans qu’on devine pourquoi (puisque les aînés de Bonnevie se
sont toujours appelés Jean), il est aussi l’oncle à l’héritage. Débile, avec sa
figure fripée et fade, ses yeux myopes, ses cheveux grisonnants, c’est un
original inoffensif qui vit tout seul dans son pavillon, faisant lui-même son
ménage par peur qu’on ne dérange ses papiers, souffrant à peine que la fille
de cuisine lui prépare ses maigres repas. On ne le voit guère au château que
le dimanche, jour où maman l’invite à déjeuner ou à dîner.
Il a des idées à lui. Il porte toujours dans sa poche une barbe de plume
dont il se chatouille le dedans du nez, au moins trois fois par jour, pour se
faire éternuer, parce que cela évite les rhumatismes. Il fait un peu
d’aquarelle et de modelage. Mais sa vraie marotte, ce sont les livres, parmi
lesquels il vit, c’est l’on ne sait quels essais historiques qu’il écrit. Il croit
avoir, au cours de ses recherches, retrouvé par hasard les traces de la
famille, dont l’origine remonterait à la fin du XIVᵉ siècle. Il est en
correspondance avec des savants, des bibliophiles, des libraires. Et l’argent
qu’il dépense pour ses documents est une des exaspérations de sa sœur.

Grand, voûté, crasseux, mal habillé, l’air d’un pauvre, l’oncle Jacques
considérait son neveu.
—Qu’est-ce que tu fais là?...
Il avait, comme eux tous, un rien d’accent normand, cette manière très
atténuée que, chez nous, les gens distingués ont de chanter comme les
paysans, ce qui, du reste, n’est pas sans charme.
Le petit Laurent releva son menton volontaire. Ses yeux pleins d’éclats
regardèrent de bas en haut le grand type sans méchanceté qui ne le
gronderait pas.
—Ben, tu vois bien, répondit-il, je massacre les arbres...
Un rêve couva dans les yeux doux de l’oncle. Depuis longtemps, il
soupirait aussi, lui, comme sa sœur, au sujet de l’enfant. Ce diable ne
ressemblait en rien au neveu qu’il eût souhaité, studieux et sage disciple
auquel il eût inculqué l’amour de l’histoire, qu’il eût initié lentement à ses
recherches sur l’origine de leur maison.
—Ce n’est pas beau d’abîmer les arbres... prononça-t-il. Et puis, qu’est-
ce que tu fais à cette heure-ci dehors? Tu devrais être à ta salle d’études.
 Une fois de plus, il soupira:
—Si tu voulais, Laurent, je t’apprendrais, moi... Et sans t’ennuyer, tu
sais?
Une petite émotion lui fit avancer sa main, gentiment, comme pour
mieux persuader par quelque caresse.
Le gamin, impassible, laissa la main s’avancer. Puis, appliquant dessus
une fort grande claque, il répondit par le mot le plus grossier du monde. Et,
sans reculer, effronté, provocant, il continua de regarder son oncle.
L’autre, remettant sans rien dire sa pauvre main dans sa poche, attentif,
dévisagea le petit. Celui-ci, les yeux égayés par une ironie toute normande,
prit exprès le plein accent du pays pour demander, de sa petite voix trop
haute:
—Est-y qu’ t’ aurais point entendu?
Et, de toutes ses forces, faisant un pas en avant, le menton haut, il cria de
nouveau l’insulte.
Là-dessus, un craquement de branches. Et l’on vit Mᵐᵉ Carmin de
Bonnevie, nerveuse et noire, qui venait à grands pas colères.
—Laurent!... Laurent!...
Alors, avec un geste de petit bouc, il secoua sa tête toute frisée et brune,
exécuta de côté quelque chose comme une ruade, et, faisant un pied de nez
dans la direction de sa mère, à toutes jambes il se sauva, disparut.
L’oncle Jacques, nez à nez avec sa sœur suffoquée, murmura:
—Je te félicite, Alice! Il est bien élevé, ton fils!
A quoi, rouge et méprisante, elle répondit, elle aussi, sur un ton presque
paysan:
—Tu t’occuperais de tes dictionnaires, cela vaudrait peut-être beaucoup
mieux, tu sais?...
Puis, reprenant sa course, elle se remit, haletante, à la poursuite du petit.
 II

APPRIVOISEMENT

Il avait continué de fuir, était loin, maintenant, tout au bout du parc. Par
une brèche, il se coula, sur les genoux et les mains, à travers la haute haie
épineuse, et fut sur la route.
Le village commençait là. Quatre heures. Les écoliers sortaient de
l’école.
Il y en avait quatre ou cinq avec lesquels Laurent aimait à jouer. Chaque
fois qu’il le pouvait, il allait les retrouver en cachette. On le lui défendait
expressément, ces enfants n’étant pas de son rang, et connus pour leur
mauvais esprit.
Ils étaient de ces petits Normands dits «fortes têtes», qui ramassent des
cailloux pour lapider les passants et ne rêvent par ailleurs qu’école
buissonnière et maraude.
Ce n’étaient pas des fils de paysans. Ceux-là sont plus pacifiques et plus
lents.
L’un appartient à la dame de la poste, l’autre à l’épicier, le troisième...
Laurent s’était battu longtemps avec eux avant de les dominer.
Maintenant il était leur maître, celui qui décide des jeux et des promenades.
Après saute-mouton et les quilles, la bande quittait le village et s’en
allait à travers les chemins creux, longeant les haies des fermes, en quête de
méfaits nouveaux.
Chaque saison avait ses plaisirs. En hiver, ils s’introduisaient, par des
trous, dans les granges fermées, afin de jouer à cache-cache dans les bottes
de foin, qu’ils mettaient à mal en les piétinant. Au printemps, ils
cherchaient des nids, ou bien volaient des œufs dans les poulaillers. En été,
c’était la cueillette des groseilles dans les vergers mal gardés. En automne,
ils secouaient les pommiers et bourraient leurs poches de pommes qu’ils se
partageaient ensuite, avec cris et batailles.
Laurent avait à profusion, chez lui, toutes ces bonnes choses; mais il ne
les aimait que dérobées, conquises. C’était pour lui le butin de guerre, avec
tout ce que ce mot comporte de risques et d’aventures.
 Au retour de ces expéditions, sali, déchiré, les yeux sauvages, il rentrait
au château, sachant fort bien quelles punitions l’attendaient.
C’étaient toujours les mêmes, Mᵐᵉ Carmin n’ayant pas trouvé mieux.
Elle les graduait selon la gravité des cas. Il y avait la privation de dessert,
les lignes à copier, la retenue du dimanche, le dîner au pain sec, le coucher
bien avant l’heure, en plein jour. Il y avait aussi le blâme de M. le curé, la
menace du collège, et autres paroles qui le laissaient indifférent. Mais
personne, jamais, n’avait levé la main sur lui, ce qui, peut-être, eût été la
seule chose à faire.
Avec son instinct d’enfant, il se rendait parfaitement compte qu’aucune
autorité suffisante, dans cette maison sans homme, ne pouvait mater son
indiscipline. Et, sans même le savoir, il méprisait en bloc tout son monde.

... Quand Mᵐᵉ Carmin vit qu’elle ne rattraperait pas son fils, elle rentra
tout époumonnée au château, mit son chapeau, ses gants, et fut au
presbytère trouver M. le curé.
C’était son habitude dans de telles occasions.
Accoutumé, monotone, l’abbé Lost la reçut dans sa petite salle à manger.
C’était un prêtre de campagne, grand et solide, fin visage paysan, cheveux
déjà gris, esprit plein de bonhomie et non sans sagesse.
Quand il eut, avec des yeux demi-clos de confesseur, écouté les
doléances de sa châtelaine:
—Qu’est-ce que vous voulez, Madame, dit-il d’un air las... les punitions
n’agissent pas, les raisonnements encore moins. Le pauvre enfant n’est
sensible à rien et n’a peur de rien. Je vous l’ai déjà dit. Il faudrait vous en
séparer pour le mettre dans une bonne institution, loin d’ici... Ce serait
mieux à tous les points de vue. Il serait enrégimenté, surveillé...
L’émulation... Il est tout aussi apte qu’un autre, quand il veut. Vous n’avez
qu’à voir comme il a vite appris son plain-chant. Voilà! Quand ça lui plaît...
—Je ne me séparerai jamais de mon fils!... répondit froidement Mᵐᵉ
Carmin.
Onctueux, le prêtre accepta cette phrase qu’il attendait.
—Alors, Madame, ayez un précepteur... Un abbé... Je vous ai déjà dit
tout cela.
 —Monsieur le curé, fit-elle avec assez de hauteur, je vous ai déjà dit
aussi qu’il ne me convenait pas d’introduire dans ma vie une personne
étrangère...
Ils avaient baissé les yeux tous deux. Mᵐᵉ Carmin était encore trop jeune,
et craignait les mauvaises langues; elle était, de plus, chacun le savait, fort
regardante et redoutait des dépenses non prévues dans ses calculs serrés.
L’abbé Lost releva la tête, cligna, ne regarda pas en face, et conclut:
—Alors, Madame?...
—Alors, Monsieur le curé?...
—C’est un enfant bien difficile... articula-t-il d’un air décourageant.
Une véhémence contenue rendit plus foncés les yeux de la nerveuse
personne.
—Ah! Monsieur le curé!... Quand on pense qu’à dix mois il mordait sa
nourrice au sang, et que j’ai dû renoncer à la garder! Il a fallu...
Il connaissait l’histoire. Patiemment, il reprit quand elle eut fini:
—Puisque vous ne pouvez pas vous en séparer, Madame, peut-être
faudra-t-il essayer... essayer d’autres moyens... Voyons! L’enfant a grand
désir de posséder une bicyclette... Peut-être qu’en la lui promettant s’il est
raisonnable...
Elle le coupa passionnément:
—Non!
Puis, essayant de se modérer:
—Une bicyclette?... Mais on ne le verrait plus jamais, alors? Il serait
tous les jours à la ville... Ce serait du propre!...
Le prêtre ouvrit les bras et haussa les sourcils, comme pour exprimer: «A
la fin, qu’est-ce que vous voulez qu’on dise à une entêtée comme vous?...»
Mais il avait des raisons, d’ordre bien ecclésiastique, pour ménager son
importante paroissienne. Il prit un rassurant air grave:
—Madame, le bon Dieu seul sait ce qu’il veut faire de votre fils. Il faut
avoir confiance. Les Confessions de saint Augustin sont là pour nous
prouver que...
Elle n’était venue que pour entendre cela. A personne d’autre qu’au
prêtre elle n’eût fait voir l’état de son cœur anxieux.
 *
**
Laurent n’accompagna pas ses amis dans leurs entreprises d’aujourd’hui.
Depuis sa rencontre de tout à l’heure avec son oncle, une idée s’insinuait
lentement en lui. Jamais il ne semblait entendre les paroles qu’on lui disait,
ne les entendait pas, en réalité. Mais elles restaient comme semées dans sa
tête, et germaient un peu plus tard.
Voici, marchant d’un pas calme, le même galopin qui courait si fort. La
tête basse, il réfléchit, tout en avançant sous les arbres de l’allée. Ses grands
sourcils, froncés, donnent à son front mat, chargé de boucles noires, une
expression qui n’est pas celle d’un enfant. Ses yeux sombres, pleins d’une
âme autoritaire, regardent de côté sans rien voir.
Il cessa soudain d’hésiter et se remit à courir.
A la porte du pavillon habité par son oncle, il frappa trois grands coups,
d’un geste décidé, violent, comme tous ses gestes. Et parce que l’oncle
n’ouvrait pas assez vite, il se mit à trépigner. Enfin, des pas se firent
entendre.
—Qui est là?... demanda la voix étonnée de l’oncle.
—C’est moi, Laurent. Ouvre!
Le verrou, la clef, tout grinça. L’oncle Jacques apparut dans l’ombre de
son corridor.
C’était la première fois que son neveu pénétrait chez lui.
—Qu’est-ce qui t’amène?... fit-il avec une immense surprise.
Laurent lui planta dans ses yeux myopes un regard catégorique. Mais il
ne sut dire que ce mot d’enfant:
—Rien...
L’autre comprit-il qu’il y avait, dans ce mot, beaucoup de choses?
—Entre!... murmura-t-il avec une émotion singulière.
Et quand le petit fut dans le cabinet de travail, au milieu des paperasses
qui envahissaient tout parmi la plus épaisse poussière, devant la table de
travail surchargée de livres, de brouillons, de gravures, qu’éclairait la
fenêtre à petits carreaux à travers laquelle on voyait fuir les perspectives du
parc, il fit un mouvement effaré, comme s’il allait se sauver.
 Il n’y eut aucune explication. L’oncle s’assit à sa table. Avec un petit
tremblement dans la voix:
—Puisque tu es venu me voir... Tu sais ce que j’étudie là?
—Non!
—Eh bien! C’est l’histoire de notre famille.
Il se pencha, chercha fiévreusement, ses yeux myopes tout près des
papiers.
Laurent piétinait. Il avait quelque chose à dire, qui voulait sortir, qui ne
pouvait pas attendre. Mais il savait que le moment n’était pas encore
propice. Et il souffrait, de tout son être impatient, péremptoire.
—Je suis presque sûr, maintenant, continuait Jacques de Bonnevie,
presque sûr d’avoir retrouvé les traces de notre premier ancêtre. Il y a de ces
coïncidences qui ne peuvent pas être du hasard...
C’était sa passion à lui. Toute sa personne frémissait. Pour la première
fois, quelqu’un de la famille venait à lui, consentait à l’écouter. Et c’était
justement le plus intéressant, Laurent, l’enfant, celui qui pouvait devenir le
disciple. Depuis vingt ans, les siens le considéraient comme un maniaque
ennuyeux dont on n’entend même plus les propos.
—Ecoute... Je vais te retrouver le livre, où, pour la première fois, il y a
quinze ans, j’ai découvert, je crois, l’origine de notre nom... Tu vas juger
toi-même... C’est presque une certitude... C’est... oui!... oui!... C’est une
certitude! J’ai d’autres documents, tu vas voir... Qu’est-ce que tu fais?...
Ah! oui!... les images!... Tu regardes mes gravures?... On vient de me les
envoyer. Mais ce n’est pas intéressant. Il y en a une que je cherche...
Il secoua la tête d’un air agacé.
—Ils ont bêtes, tous ces libraires! Il va falloir, un de ce jours, que je
fasse le voyage... que j’aille voir moi-même les musées... Il n’y a pas
moyen!...
Brusquement, il se tourna tout entier vers l’enfant. Et, comme si c’eût été
le préambule de toute une conférence:
—C’est dommage que tu ne saches pas l’italien. Mais j’ai mes
traductions.
Laurent fit un pas brutal en avant. Mais l’oncle ne s’en aperçut pas.
—Et, d’abord, poursuivit-il, est-ce que, là-bas, ils t’ont déjà fait faire de
l’histoire universelle?
 Laurent secoua rageusement la tête.
—Non!
—C’est dommage! Alors, on ne t’a jamais parlé des Sforza, de Ludovic
le More, des Noirs et des Blancs, des Guelfes et des Gibelins, des Grandes
Compagnies, des condottieri?
La tête remuait toujours, de plus en plus négative et rageuse.
—A ton âge?.... Qu’est-ce qu’ils t’apprennent donc, chez toi?
L’enfant haussa les épaules. Et, comme soulagé d’exhaler son mépris, de
quelque façon que ce fût:
—Ils m’apprennent l’Histoire Sainte et le catéchisme!
Un rire de l’oncle:
—Imbéciles!
Il se leva, prit dans ses mains la tête toute frisée qui résistait d’instinct,
ne parvenait pas à se laisser faire.
—Tu aimerais connaître notre histoire?
Un essai de complaisance passa sur le visage rebiffé du petit.
—Oui, oncle.
D’enthousiasme, le vieux garçon, pour se frotter les mains, lâcha la tête
qu’il tenait.
—Laurent, tu sais comment nous nous appelons, en réalité?
Ses yeux se fermèrent. Il y avait quinze ans qu’il le ressassait à des
moqueurs qui ne l’écoutaient pas.
—Ecoute bien! Notre premier ancêtre était moine au couvent des
Carmes, en Italie. C’était à une époque que je t’expliquerai plus tard. Un
beau jour, il sort de son couvent, décidé, comme on dit maintenant, à vivre
sa vie. Quelle vie!... Je te raconterai. Tu ne saisis pas encore?... Un surnom
lui reste: Carmine. Maintenant, voici autre chose. Il y a, dans l’histoire des
Grandes Compagnies, un fameux Buonavita, ainsi nommé par ironie...
Passons! Eh bien!... Moi je suis à peu près sûr, à présent, que Carmine et
Buonavita ne sont qu’un seul et même personnage. Comprends-tu,
maintenant? Comprends-tu?... Carmine Buonavita, c’est notre nom: Carmin
de Bonnevie!
Se rasseyant, le front en sueur, il attira l’enfant contre lui.
 —Qu’est-ce que tu dis de ça?... C’est assez clair! Coïncidence?...
Coïncidence?... Jamais!... Les deux noms, l’italien et le français, sont bien
identiques, voyons!
Une joie subite l’agita.
—Mon petit Laurent! Tu es venu! Tu es venu enfin! Quel bonheur que tu
m’aies compris!
Pour l’embrasser, il se souleva sur son fauteuil.
—Ecoute, maintenant! Je vais te lire...
Mais Laurent n’en pouvait plus. Malgré lui, ce qu’il avait décidé de dire
et qui l’avait amené là, dans ce pavillon, éclata comme une fanfare. Il mit
un bras autour du cou de son oncle, s’assit sur ses genoux, et, de sa plus
haute voix d’enfant de chœur:
—Oncle! Oncle!... Je veux une bicyclette, et c’est toi qui vas me
l’acheter!
La stupeur fit que Jacques de Bonnevie demeura d’abord absolument
muet. Doucement, ses mains avaient repoussé l’enfant. Le cœur serré, le
front bas, il regardait fixement par terre. Cette ridicule bicyclette, tombée
dans son rêve, l’anéantissait d’un seul coup.
Il put enfin relever la tête. Avec une indicible mélancolie, il murmura:
—Une bicyclette?...
C’était donc pour cela qu’il était venu le voir, le petit? Et de tout ce
qu’on venait de lui dire, il n’avait rien retenu, comme les autres...
—Ben oui, une bicyclette!... s’emporta Laurent. Maman ne veut pas me
la donner, et moi je la veux!
Il frappait du pied. Ses yeux flamboyaient.
Un sourire passa sur la figure triste de l’oncle.
—Et tu comptes sur moi pour ça? Je me ferais bien arranger par ta
mère!...
Son sourire finit en rire. Il s’était levé comme pour congédier le jeune
importun. Ce fut avec la plus amère ironie et le plus inutile orgueil qu’il
acheva, la tête haute:
—Et puis, c’est laid, une bicyclette! Un Carmine Buonavita ne monte
pas à bicyclette: il monte à cheval!
Laurent avait reculé comme un petit animal attaqué.
 —Tu es aussi bête que les autres!... cria-t-il. Plus bête!... Je te déteste,
entends-tu, vieux idiot!...
Il avait fait un bond.
—Tiens, tes livres!... Tiens, tes papiers!... Tiens, tes gravures!...
Avec un cri déchirant, Jacques de Bonnevie se jeta sur son neveu.
Eparpillées sur le plancher, piétinées, les paperasses volaient. L’encrier
renversé glissait un serpent noir sur la table, menaçant les précieuses pages.
Ce fut une courte lutte. Le malheureux historien, dans le poing crispé du
petit, parvint à reprendre le papier qu’il chiffonnait férocement. Quelques
coups s’échangèrent. Puis, finalement maîtrisé, l’enfant, pris aux poignets,
repassa tout en se débattant la porte du cabinet de travail, celle du couloir,
celle, enfin, du pavillon, laquelle, avec bruit, se referma dans son petit dos
en jersey bleu.
 III

LA BELLE DÉCOUVERTE

Par les allées crépusculaires, il revenait enfin au château. L’heure du

repas le ramenait animalement chez lui. C’était la seule discipline qu’il
connût et acceptât.
Il avait passé le reste de son après-midi, depuis six heures, à donner des
coups de pied dans la porte du pavillon de son oncle, puis à lancer des
pierres dans ses vitres. Mais l’oncle ayant fini par fermer les volets,
l’enfant, à la longue, s’était lassé.
Sa crise de colère, épuisée, le laissait encore bouillonnant. Les joues
moites, les yeux animés, il avait rôdé tout autour du pavillon, cherchant des
vengeances.
Maintenant qu’il rentrait, il savait que l’heure était venue de
l’immanquable punition. Mais il ne la redoutait pas beaucoup. Cela faisait
partie du rythme de sa vie. Ses poignets, tordus par les doigts de l’oncle, lui
faisaient encore mal. Il en éprouvait comme une satisfaction. Il s’était battu.
Il était bien.
Il ne se pressait pas. Sa pensée l’occupait, tandis qu’il avançait à travers
les arbres sombres.
Sous ses pieds, le sol était doux et mou, velouté de mousse qu’il ne
pouvait plus distinguer, dans la grande nuit qui tombait des branches
entrecroisées.
Une fraîcheur descendait avec l’heure. L’enfant passait parfois par une
zone de parfums venus de quelque chèvrefeuille invisible, ou bien de
certaines herbes, encore chaudes du soleil de la journée. Et, tout au bout des
avenues, le couchant et les ramures, étroitement mêlés, composaient un
long vitrail bleu, rouge et jaune.
Le grand apaisement du soir calmait peu à peu la petite âme insurgée.
Cependant aucune douceur n’y pénétrait. Laurent, simplement,
réfléchissait; et ses réflexions restaient combatives, ardentes.
—Ma bicyclette, je la veux! Ils me la donneront... Ou bien...