Chapter-3 The Sin

Throughout the ride to Sokolov Mansion, I could only sit there and hold my breath, afraid that if I breathed too loudly or shifted even an inch, I’d tear the wound open and stain the pristine leather seat beneath me with blood.

The car glided smoothly over the snow-laced road, tires whispering against the frost. Inside, it was warm… too warm. Heat pooled beneath my coat, sweat gathering at my lower back despite the winter biting outside. Every small bump sent a sharp reminder through my skin, a sting that bloomed and then throbbed, as if my body refused to forget what had been done to it.

It wasn’t the first time I’d been punished but it was the first time someone knew.

God forgives those who endure. Who knows their place and take accountance for their action.

Catherine sat beside me, perfectly composed. Her gloved hands rested in her lap, posture elegant, chin lifted as she stared out the window like nothing in the world could disturb her calm. She hadn’t noticed. Not the way I sat stiff as stone, not the way my fingers curled into the fabric of my clothes, clutching it as though it could keep me together.

And I was grateful for that. Terribly, selfishly grateful.

Because if she saw, if anyone saw, there would be questions. Questions I didn’t have answers to. Questions that would pull threads I desperately needed left untouched.

Soon, we reached the outskirts leading to their grand mansion. And my heart just pounded loudly.

Even from a distance, it radiated power.

My stomach twisted.

The car slowed, crunching over gravel dusted with snow, before coming to a smooth stop beneath the towering entrance. The driver stepped out quickly, opening Catherine’s door first.

“Careful,” She murmured as she rose.

I nodded, swallowing hard, and followed her out.

The cold struck instantly stealing the air from my lungs. I welcomed it. It felt like penance. Like balance.

Sokolov Mansion did not look lived in but arbitrating. As though it had stood there long before me and would remain long after I was gone, unchanged by the smallness of human suffering.

I lowered my gaze instinctively.

“So this is your first time here,” Catherine said lightly, her heels clicking against marble as the doors opened before us.

“Yes,” I replied, my voice quieter than I intended.

“It can feel overwhelming at first,” she continued, not unkindly. “But you’ll find your footing soon enough.”

I wondered if she believed that. Or if she simply believed people should.

Inside, warmth swallowed me whole. The scent of polished wood and something faintly metallic lingered in the air. Staff lined the entrance, their eyes flicking toward me and away again with practiced will. I felt exposed beneath their gazes, as though they could see straight through fabric and skin and into the sin beneath.

I kept my head bowed as we passed.

Do not draw attention, a familiar voice of my mother followed me, the meek are spared.

Catherine led me up a wide staircase. My steps followed. Pain flared with every movement, but I welcomed it, clinging to the belief that endurance was devotion. God forgave those who bore their burdens without complaint. Those who accepted their place and took accountability for their actions whether they remembered committing them or not.

“This will be your room,” Catherine said at last, opening a tall door at the end of a quiet corridor.

I nodded, stepping behind her.

The room was… too beautiful.

High ceilings. Tall windows veiled in pale curtains. A bed large enough to swallow me whole, dressed in white linens so pristine they felt harsh. I stepped inside carefully, as though afraid to stain the air itself.

“If you need anything,” Catherine added, pausing at the threshold, “the staff is always nearby.”

“Thank you,” I murmured.

She studied me for a moment, long enough to make my chest tighten, then nodded and left me alone.

The door closed softly behind her.

Silence settled.

Only then did I allow myself to breathe.

I crossed the room slowly, my coat slipping from my shoulders as I reached the bathroom. The mirror greeted me with a stranger’s face, pale, strained, eyes too bright. My hands trembled as I turned away, unable to hold her gaze.

I couldn’t look at the face my mother spent all her life loathing. I reached behind me, fingers catching on fabric.

And I tore it.

I shrugged out of my dress, fabric pooling uselessly at my feet. I stood there, bare-backed, shaking, before forcing myself to turn toward the mirror.

The whip marks stared back at me.

Angry. Red. Split open like a confession I hadn’t meant to make.

A sharp breath tore from my chest. Tears blurred my vision instantly, hot and humiliating. I pressed my palm to the sink, nails digging into porcelain as pain flared anew.

This is correction. This is mercy.

God wounded those He wished to save. He carved away corruption. That was what I had been taught. What I clung to now as my body trembled under the weight of it.

I dropped to my knees and reached for my bag, fingers frantic as I rummaged through it until I found the small first-aid kit I’d packed out of habit and fear.

My hands shook as I cleaned the wound, hissing softly when the sting became unbearable. I bit down on my lip hard enough to taste blood. Tears slipped free anyway, dotting the marble floor.

I’m sorry.

Though I wasn’t sure to whom. God. Myself. The body I inhabited and failed to protect.

I pulled the bandages too tight in some places and too loose in others. It didn’t matter. It only needed to look covered. Hidden so that my sister or anyone else couldn’t see it. There’d be questions, there’d be accusations.

I dressed, fabric brushing too close, making me wince. By the time I finished, I was exhausted, hollowed out by pain and prayer alike.

I sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded in my lap, staring at the floor.

If this was punishment, then I would accept it.

If this was a test, then I would endure.

Because God rewarded those who stayed silent.

And I had learned long ago how to be very, very quiet.

But others wouldn’t.

I shuddered at the memory of his palm streaked with red, my blood smeared across his skin. Like a violent tremor rippling through me despite the cold. The realization settled heavy in my chest: he had seen it. Touched it. Known.

Please. Don’t let me see him.

Because if I did…I would have to speak to him. I would have to ask. To beg, perhaps. For his silence. To make him promise not to mention it. Not to Catherine. Not to anyone.

The thought alone made my stomach twist.

God watched. I knew that much. I had been taught He did. That His gaze was everywhere, weighing every breath, every misstep. That pain was not brutality, it was rectification. A reminder. A necessary cleansing for those who strayed.

Suffering meant I was being seen. And if my blood had spilled, if my skin had split open beneath another’s hand… then perhaps it was because I had deserved it.

The logic was familiar. Comforting, in a twisted way. It had always been easier to believe the fault was mine. Easier than imagining a God who would allow cruelty without reason.

I didn’t know yet that faith could be taught wrong.

That devotion could be shaped into a weapon.

That not all suffering was holy.

I only knew one thing.

If I ever see Pakhan Sokolov again, then whatever peace I’d prayed for would not be granted.

A knock sounded at the door, making me jolt.

“Ana?” Catherine’s voice followed. “Dinner is ready. Will you join us?”

My spine stiffened. My pulse skidded as I tried to steady my voice.

“Yes,” I answered after a beat. “I’ll be right there.”

I stood, smoothing my dress and I opened the door to find Catherine standing there with a small smile that instantly dropped at the sight of me.

“You look pale,” she said gently.

“I’m just tired.”

She frowned. “You always were. Even as a child. You never liked dinners. Do you still skip them at the Convent?”

I sinned and lied. “No.”

Catherine seemed to brought my lie, because she didn’t ask me much just turned and I politely followed her.

As we walked down the corridor together, her arm brushed mine, and suddenly I was twelve again. Catherine spoke of small things as we went. Of the house. Of the staff. Of how winter lingered longer here than anywhere else. How this house was colder than outside.

I could feel it as she talked.

It was freezing in here. As if it was snowing inside.

“You used to hate the cold,” she said with a soft laugh as we crossed what looked like a living area. “You’d cry if your hands got numb.”

My throat tightened.

I remembered cold hands.

Too cold.

Held too long. Buried in the snow. As my mother threw ice cold water at me. Screaming, yelling and suddenly I could hear my own wails and cried begging for her to stop cause it hurt.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Quiet girls are good girls.

Cold eyes.

Colder hands.

I shut my eyes mid-step, breath stuttering, then forced air into my lungs slowly. Deeply. Catherine’s presence steadied me, even as the past clawed at the edges of my mind. I hated how much she resembled our mother, and I hate myself more for feeling the hate.

I evened my thoughts and hummed as Catherine said something as we entered the kitchen.

A woman approached us immediately, wearing a crisp apron and baking gloves.

Catherine pointed to her. “This is Magda.”

“Good evening,” Magda said warmly. “I’m Magda, head of the kitchen staff.”

Catherine smiled. “This is my sister, Ana.”

Magda’s eyes softened. “Welcome to the Sokolov Mansion.”

I managed a smile.

More faces followed her as Catherine introduced me to them followed by polite smiles. I returned them all, my lips curving automatically, my body moving on memory rather than thought.

But I couldn’t focus on anything else but the cold and the pain in my back, not able to hold up for longer, I sat perching at the table without thinking.

“Ana,” Catherine called for me and I looked up to find her tensed, “we don’t sit on the table. Not before the men of this house.”

Heat flooded my face.

“I— I’m sorry,” I mumbled slowly standing up.

She waved it away with a small smile. “It’s not a big deal. Just tradition. This family still follows… very old rules.”

Her tone turned wry, as her jaw twitched. “Ancient ones, really.”

I nodded, forcing a smile of my own, but something about the way she said it unsettled me. I knew her since we were children.

Her jaw used to twitch when she were caught lying about stealing jellies.

“I didn’t know rules like that still existed,” I said quietly.

“They do,” Catherine replied, smoothing an invisible crease in her sleeve. “In houses like this, these kinda rules are always there.”

I glanced at her and her fingers worried the ring on her hand before she caught herself and stilled them. Catherine had always been graceful, but this was different. This was vigilance. Just like our mother.

“You used to hate rules, old lady,” I said before I could stop myself. “You said they were excuses people used to feel important.”

Her lips curved faintly. “I was younger then.”

“So was I,” I murmured.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The dining room felt too large, too full of echoes. I noticed how Catherine positioned herself angled toward the doors.

“You don’t laugh like before,” I said suddenly.

She blinked. “What?”

“I mean… you used to laugh when I used to call you an old lady,” I corrected softly.

Her gaze dropped to the tablecloth. “You notice too much.”

“I learned from the best.”

That earned a real smile but gone almost as soon as it appeared. She exhaled slowly, then straightened.

“My life in this house isn’t as unkind as you think,” she said, a little too quickly. “It’s just… too organized.”

Organized.

I nodded again, though my chest felt tight. “Do you ever miss home?”

Catherine’s jaw tightened. Just slightly. “Which one?”

I didn’t know which home I should remind her of. The one where our father died, one where our mother dragged us to, the one where she fell for another man, or the home I bled in. Catherine knew what I meant. But neither of us wanted to acknowledge it.

Some ghosts and memories were too deep to forget, yet dark enough to taint the eternity.

I flinched as she touched my arm. “You’ll get used to it,” she said. “We all do.”

The certainty in her voice frightened me more than doubt would have.

I swallowed, the question pressing harder now, aching to be asked. And I knew, before the words ever left my mouth, that whatever answer she gave, it wouldn’t be the truth.

Not entirely at least.

Both of us were liars.

“Are you happy?” I asked, without meaning to and Catherine’s eyes widened before she masked it with a smile.

The question surprised us both.

Her smile didn’t falter, but something in her eyes did. Just for a second. A shadow passed through them before she nodded.

“Yes,” she said. “I am.”

I nodded, because that was what we did in our family, we nodded at lies the way other people nodded at prayers. With reverence. With understanding. With the unspoken agreement that survival mattered more than honesty.

I had heard that yes before. In my mother’s mouth. In my own.

Happiness, I realized then, wasn’t a feeling. It was a performance. One you perfected when the alternative was punishment, abandonment, or worse… being seen.

We, as humans, hated to being seen.

Catherine’s smile stayed in place, it was flawless and familiar, but I could see the strain now. The tightness around her eyes. The way her breath caught before settling again. She hadn’t lied to me to deceive me. She’d lied to protect herself. Maybe to protect me.

And that made it hurt more.

Because if she wasn’t safe enough to tell the truth, if my sister couldn’t admit unhappiness aloud, then what chance did I have?

Like I said, we both were damned liars.

But God rewarded silence.

God loved obedience.

God loved endurance.

But…. what kind of God required women to lie so well?

The thought frightened me. I crushed it immediately, the way I’d been taught. Doubt was temptation. Questions were disobedience. Pain was proof of faith. I bore the marks now.

Still, the image of her eyes burned itself into me.

I opened my mouth to ask more before footsteps echoed from the staircase. Male voices followed.

My breath hitched. My thoughts scattered, colliding into something sharp and uglier than scars. I straightened instinctively, spine locking, shoulders pulling back the way I’d been taught.

Don’t look small.

Don’t draw attention.

Don’t exist.

But it was too late.

Heat crawled up my neck, my skin suddenly too tight, and aware. I hated myself for it. Hated the way my body reacted before my mind could catch up at the familiar voice between blend of bland ones.

I hated how easily I recognized it despite hearing it few hours back.

I turned slowly as four men descended the stairs. Power swathed around them like silk and steel combined but it was the man in the center who unraveled me wholly.

His presence pressed into my chest, leaving me breathlessly still.

Pakhan Sokolov.

The flaps of his coat moved with each step, cut form the part of his soul.

There was a saint in the Bible, and then there was Satan.

Father Christian used to say temptation was never loud. It didn’t yell but it did whispered. Sometimes dressed in beauty, wrapped in authority, carrying fear so sharp it felt like veneration.

He said the devil was not chaos, but order twisted just enough to feel unavoidable. Unholy not because he lacked light but because he knew how to use it.

I never understood how could the devil of hell be wrapped in beauty, or respected or worshiped. There was no reason to give him a title.

As Pakhan Sokolov descended the stairs, I understood now.

Evil did not look as bad as I had been taught to imagine it. There were no grotesque edges, no visible rot, but edges that scratch. Composed evil. Immaculate evil. Evil carved from castigation and dominion and madness.

And I realized that evil could be a God, an angel, and…. a man.