Chapter-5 The Sin - 1

I barely made it to the bathroom.

The door shut behind me with a dull click before my knees hit the cold marble and my hands fumbled for the edge of the toilet. The overwhelming and sour acid came up fast. I retched until my throat burned and my eyes watered, until my stomach twisted in on itself like it was trying to reject more than just food.

The flavors betrayed me.

Butter. Spice. Oil. Things my body no longer knew how to hold. The convent had fed us plainly, boiled, bland, obedient meals meant to quiet desire, not wake it. This house had fed me indulgence without asking if I was ready.

I gagged again, shame rising hotter than nausea.

When it was over, I stayed there, forehead resting against the porcelain, breathing shallowly like I’d run miles instead of a few corridors. My mouth tasted sour. My chest hurt.

I wiped my lips with the back of my hand, then stood slowly, gripping the sink as the world steadied.

The mirror caught me unprepared.

My eyes were red-rimmed, lashes clumped with tears I didn’t remember letting fall. I splashed water onto my face. Tears slipped anyway, tracking down my cheeks despite my efforts.

Stop.

Stop reacting.

But my reflection didn’t listen.

I bit my lip hard, pressure blooming into pain, and squeezed my eyes shut as another wave of tears broke free. This time there was anger in them, humiliation and the confusion as to why this affected me this way.

I hated that his words had done this to me.

Hated that they followed me here, clung to my ribs, echoed louder in the quiet than they ever had at the table.

Because from where I’m sitting, that’s not God.

I turned the tap on again and washed my face properly this time, slower, calmer, like I was trying to erase the dinner, the room, the man who had looked at my faith like something fragile and flawed.

My hands went to my veil. For a moment, they hesitated.

Removing it felt like crossing a line. But the fabric felt suffocating. I untied it and let it slip free, black cloth pooling at the counter like a shed skin.

My hair fell with a soft weight down my back, unbound and unfamiliar, dark strands cascading to my hips. I stared at it as though it belonged to someone else. Slowly, almost reverently, I threaded my fingers through it.

My mother used to hate my hair.

She said it was too dark for our family. Since she and Catherine were blond.

My dark eyes reminded her of my father, she said she’d rather have me blind.

I swallowed, biting my lips as I thread my fingers.

It was soft.

I didn’t recognize the woman in the mirror now. Without the veil, without the rigid lines and rules, I looked exposed. Ordinary.

Ugly.

Unworthy.

Does it teach faith, or just expect you fools to shut up, kneel, and do as you’re told without ever asking why?

I wrapped my arms around myself, fingers digging into my sleeves, nails grazing skin beneath the habit. I saw everything I’d been taught to see. A body that failed. A soul that lied.

If I was sick, it was because I deserved it.

If I was shaken, it was because my faith wasn’t strong enough.

If his words hurt, it was because they found something true.

I pressed my forehead to the mirror, breath fogging the glass.

God.

I turned off the light and stood there in the dark for a moment longer, hair loose, eyes burning, stomach hollow, not just from what I’d lost, but from what had been unsettled.

I knew I couldn’t survive in this house longer if I keep seeing him. He was the sin I was taught not to commit.

And I hated myself most of all for knowing I couldn’t unhear him.

By the time I lay on my side and stared into the emptiness of the room, sleep refused to come. The silence pressed too close, giving my thoughts too much space to move.

There was too much inside my head. Too many words. Too many faces.

This was a mistake.

I knew it the moment I closed my eyes.

I shouldn’t have come to Moscow.

This place wasn’t just cold, it was cruel. I had lived in hell before. I knew its shape. Its smell. The way it trained you to mistake survival for grace.

And this place felt the same.

Maybe worse.

I curled in on myself, knees drawn slightly toward my chest, careful not to press my back too hard against the mattress. Even the bed felt unfamiliar. It was too soft.

I missed the pain Convent offered.

Blame was easier than anger. Shame was easier than truth.

Eventually, exhaustion won.

It dragged me under the way tides pull bodies out to sea. My thoughts blurred, edges softening, self-loathing dissolving into a dull ache behind my eyes.

As sleep finally claimed me, one last thought lingered.

If this was hell… then why did part of me feel like it had been waiting for it?

The darkness answered by closing in, and I let it.

******

I barely slept.

What little rest I got came in shallow fragments stretches where my body lay still but my mind refused to obey. Every time I closed my eyes, the house hummed, the walls whispered, and voices slipped back in like it belonged there.

I was sure this house was haunted and a demon lived here.

By morning, exhaustion clung to me heavier than guilt.

After we had our breakfast, and I was grateful Pakhan was not there, we decided to sit on the lawn. Magda said it was sunny and we should take some Vitamin D.

I smiled despite meaning to, cause she reminded me of my aunt I lost at young age.

We sat in the lawn, I was wrapped in a thin shawl over the habit and veil, hands curled around a cup of tea I hadn’t touched.

The air was crisp enough to sting my lungs despite the sun, but it felt cleaner than the suffocating warmth inside the mansion. Frost still clung to the edges of the grass. Moscow looked deceptively calm in the light.

Catherine sat beside me, one hand resting absently over her stomach.

Four months.

She glowed in that way people always describe, softened, rounded at the edges, like life had finally settled into her properly. I watched her carefully, searching for cracks I knew better than to point out.

I had many questions for her, but knowing her, she’d rather be quiet.

Magda joined us with her own tea, settling into the chair with a sigh. “My granddaughter turns three this winter,” she said fondly. “Sometimes I bring her with me. Only for a few hours. She likes the garden.”

Catherine smiled. “You’ve told me. The one with the wild curls.”

“Yes,” Magda said proudly. “Sharp tongue, that one. Takes after her mother.”

I kept my head lowered.

Takes after her mother.

I wished I could hear that for myself.

Magda chuckled, then added casually, “The previous Pakhan, he was kind. Generous. Gifted me a house when my son married. Said family should never worry about shelter.”

My fingers tightened around the cup.

I didn’t look at Catherine. I didn’t ask the question forming in my throat.

Was Kayne the same?

Why ask something when the answer lived in the marrow of the city itself?

Russia wasn’t blind. It just pretended to be.

To the outside world, Pakhan Sokolov was a politician. A businessman. A man who shook hands and smiled for cameras. Inside these walls, and everywhere the law conveniently failed, he was something else entirely.

A butcher with clean hands.

When Catherine married Nikolai, our mother hadn’t protested. Not once. She smiled, accepted the gifts, basked in the attention. Mob ties meant power. Power meant safety. That was the logic she raised us on.