Page 46 of I’m The Worst

“Where are you from?”

“No.”

More shifting.

“Wolff?”

“Go to sleep.”

She stills for a second.

“I was in Greece…when it happened.”

My eyes open. She’s staring at the wall, her face half in shadow.

“My friends and I were out partying… I was drunk. I thought it was a joke at first. Just some guys who got off being rough. But it wasn’t a joke. I’ve always been so fucking stupid.”

My hand fists against my thigh.

“They threw me in the trunk of a car. Drove for hours. I didn’t know where we were going. I kept telling myself it wasn’t real. I told Akim that my father had money. That he’d pay anything.” She swallows. “But he didn’t want money. He said I was lucky. That he wanted me…”

Her body curls tighter under the blankets.

“Why didn’t Gage come for me? Why did my father send you?”

I shift my head back against the wall. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here now. You’ll be home in a few days.”

She goes quiet again, the silence stretching for long enough that she should have fallen asleep. But I can still feel her watching me.

“Will you tell me where you’re from?” she asks again.

“Nowhere.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means drop it.”

“Is it true…what Savva said? That you don’t like to be touched?” My teeth clench. “Is that why you always stand so far away from⁠—”

“I will fucking gag you if you don’t stop talking.” I snap.

Silence.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I inhale slowly, focusing on the rhythm of my own breath. After a while, I can tell she’s falling asleep, the blankets sliding as she relaxes deeper into the bed.

Finally.

Ipush the food around my plate with a fork, not really eating it. The front door is open, letting cold air creep in, and the fire in the living room is fighting to keep up. Wolff stands in the doorway, arguing with Savva, their voices traveling through the house.

For someone who doesn’t talk much, he sure does like to argue.

I glance up and accidentally catch Viktor watching me. I look away quickly, forcing my attention back to my plate. I take a bite. The eggs are bland and mushy, barely tasting like anything. I chew, swallow, then force another bite down.

Savva’s voice rises again.

Viktor leans toward the others, muttering something in Russian. My grip tightens around the fork until my fingers start to cramp. Pushing to his feet, he grabs a bottle from one of the crates, walking over. He pours a glass and sets it beside my plate.