I shake my head.
"I'm okay," I rasp.
But I'm not.
I'm fucking not.
I want him to toss me in that cage, lock me in, and throw away the key.
Because when I'm behind those metal bars,no one can get me.
And I can't run anymore.
The pain radiates across my back and spasms in my abdomen. It feels as if someone's wrapped a vise around it and is pulling.
I try to curl my legs up to my chest, but Matvei is on me.
"Get off," I croak.
Reluctantly, he slides off me as if he somehow wanted to make sure I stayed.
Maybe he did.
"What's going on?" he asks. "Are you sick?"
I lift my knees to my chest and rock, and it does a little bit to ease the discomfort.
"I have my period."
He blinks, and something like pain flashes across his face.
"Your period," he repeats, staring at me.
I nod.
"They're really bad when I get them. I have a… condition."
I shake my head.
It hurts too much to explain about scar tissue, illness, and the fucking plague of my life.
Now I know why I’m wet between my legs. And I want to get to the bathroom to clean myself off, but I’m in so much pain. I don’t trust myself to move. The doctor I saw in Paris told me the pain level mimics active labor.
I’ll never know.
"You’re in pain because of your period?" he asks. Is it my imagination, or is his voice wobbling? This big, strong, fearless psychopath. Why does he sound unsteady?
I nod and squeeze my eyes shut as a spasm of pain takes over again.
There are meds that I can take, but I don’t have them. I’ve tried a few different things, but I’ve been on the run for too long to gather an arsenal of necessities—things like hot water bottles and the right supplements. Those are the types of things you have when you have a… home.
I haven’t had a home in over a decade.
I squeeze my eyes shut when the pain wraps around my midsection, stabbing between my legs, my back aching like it’s being pulled apart. I try to breathe through it, pressing my lips together and inhaling through my nose, but this is the worst I’ve ever experienced. I whimper, hot tears splashing onto my cheeks.
He’s standing, wringing his hands, looking at me in helpless confusion.
"What can I do?"
