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His gaze focusing on the angry skin peeking through the neckline of my T-shirt. The brown in his eyes withdraws as the black takes over, seeing nothing but darkness and red rage.

“Why is your neck red?” He questions in a tone that tells me he won’t believe my lies.

I could tell him that I scrubbed myself too hard, too many times for the past four days just to have a semblance of feeling unsoiled, squeaky clean. But I don’t want to.

For some reason, I don’t want him to know about my sob story.

I don’t want him to think I’m damaged because when he looks at me, there is no judgment, just pure wonder in his gaze, and I for a moment, actually think that I’m not damaged.

But you are, aren’t you? My worst enemy—my mind speaks.

Why are you still here? I reply.

I’ll go away when you kill yoursel—

“Elara?” Sergei speaks again.

“I…uh.” I gulp. “Stepped under scalding water.” Not exactly a lie, something close to the truth always helps. I rub the back of my neck, feigning embarrassment.

I stand small, avoiding his analysing eyes, looking everywhere but at him.

He slips a finger beneath my chin and lifts it with surprising gentleness. “Look at me, solnyshko.”

What does it mean? The accent tells me it’s something in Russian, but what exactly? And why am I so curious?

I told myself I’ll stop being curious when it comes to him. Then again, I also told myself I’ll stop the cutting, how’s that going?

His thumb gently drifts under my eyes, tracing the faint evidence of tears, his expression hard, all too knowing, yet he doesn’t say a word and for that I’m grateful.

He knows I cried, that’s better than knowing…that.

“It was so hot…” shut it. “I started crying.” I’m over explaining, it never helps. “I was in a hurry and didn’t really think before—” girl stop it.

“I’m sure.” He nods, cutting me off with the smallest dip of his chin, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Without another word, he takes my hand as if it belongs in his and guides me through my own flat with ease, as though he’s been here before.

His hand slips to my waist and, before I can protest, he lifts me again, setting me on the kitchen counter like I weigh nothing.

The edge of the marble digs into my thighs, and a sharp hiss escapes before I can stop it. Pain shoots through me, bright enough to make my vision blur for a second.

His head snaps up. “What’s wrong?”

His eyes roam all over my body, searching for any injury. His hands however, are still firmly placed on my waist as if they belong.

A foolish part of me wants to believe that they actually do. “Well,” I quirk a brow. “Other than you throwing me around like a rag doll? Nothing.”

I’d like to sound bitchier than that. I really would, but this angle really helps since I don’t have to crane my neck to look at him anymore.

We’re almost at eye level and it makes me feel closer to him.

For someone with a lot of issues with everything, I surely don’t have them when he’s around. It gives me hope.

After years of helplessness, I don’t want to surround myself with something so…deadly.

Hope has taken more lives than it has ever saved.

I’ve spent years teetering on the edge of vulnerability. I cannot let myself drown in this obsession. I cannot be around him; he has to go.