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Chapter 22
Idon’t know how I fall asleep. Or where, exactly…
Blinking, I let my exhausted brain piece together various clues like a faulty jigsaw puzzle. A looming ceiling. Dark, wooden floors. A dust-covered blanket shrouding my sore, aching limbs. I force my fingers to curl, grasping the edge of the stiff cotton. Vanya did it, his kindness striking once again.
Telling myself that is the only way to keep my heartbeat steady enough for me to deduce the rest of my surroundings. I’m sitting directly on the hardwood floor. In a corner? A quick glance around reveals shadow broken by strips of yellow sunlight streaming in through boarded-up windows. The safe house. I recall that much.
Among other things.
Like the man looming above me, standing so tall that he nearly blots out everything else.
“Get up.” He sounds rough, but I can’t tell if it’s due to exhaustion or rage. He changed during the few hours I slept, exchanging his fatigues for a pair of dark pants and a gray shirt. His arms are bared beneath quartered sleeves, and in the dim lighting, his tattoos resemble tendrils of darkness attempting to swallow him whole.
Cautiously, I rise to my feet, clinging to the wall for balance. I slept in the same room he cornered me in, tucked into a space across from the bed. Through the doorway, I can make out the couch in the other room. Did they move the girl during the night?
“Look at me.” Mischa stops short of actually touching me, though his hand parts the air between us, ghosting the length of my jaw.
“Is the girl okay?” I ask, ignoring the part of me aching to flinch. Cower. Run.
“For now.” He cuts his eyes to the doorway. “She’s alive. But you and I need to talk about something else, Little Rose.” Two heavy steps bring him closer to the door, allowing him to easily slam it shut. Turning to face me, he rakes his gaze along my body, his eyes narrowing over what he finds. “You really want me to believe that little sob story you told?”
I blink, more shocked than angry. Deep down, I’m not really surprised. Expect a monster to reason? Only a fool would be so naïve.
“Of course not,” I spit back. “That might require some human compassion—”
Rugged fingers capture the back of my hand and the rest of my insult dies on my tongue.
“Compassion?” he wonders, tracing the line of a vein up my wrist.
Paralyzed by disgust, I can only watch, hating the feel of his skin on mine. “Let me go.”
“Let’s not play any more games.” Something in his voice draws my interest. It’s deeper than before. Tired. As if he stayed up all night, mulling this potential conversation over in his head. “No more lies. No more pretty word games. You give me what I want, and I will give you what you want.”
My throat goes dry. Tentatively, I flick my tongue along my lips. “And what do I want?”
He cocks his head back, and of all things to shape his mouth, this new expression is the most alarming yet. A dangerous, half-moon shaped smirk that conveys more than the malice I’m used to. It’s resigned. As if he’s confident that whatever he’s about to ask me to do, I’ll refuse. And he’s counting on it.
“You want revenge, Little Rose,” he tells me. “Though I doubt you even realize—no.” He shakes his head, suddenly stern. “Don’t argue just yet. You want revenge on your husband, and I can give you that and more.”
“But what do you want?” I demand, overlooking his assertion—for now. “You have his accounts. His secrets. I’ve told you everything I know—”
“And that’s the problem.” The intensity in his voice makes my heartbeat stutter to nothing more than a thready pulse.
He’s closer, leaning in to bring his mouth near my ear. His stench assaults me, heavy and ripe. I don’t think he’s bathed since last night and it shows: blood and musk.
“I’ve drained your little skull dry, but it’s notyourhead I’m after.” Two of his fingers stab at my tangled hair, working their way through the matted strands. “It’s his. I want to know what makes him tick, Rose. I want to know the little secrets and fucking fears even you aren’t privy to. He thinks he can take me on? Well, I’m going to destroy that motherfucker from theinsideout.”
The stress he puts oninside…
My cheeks flame and I step back, wrenching out of his reach. “So you think the key to ‘knowing’ Robert is sleeping with me?”
“No.” He frowns as if insulted and advances a step, heedless of how it blocks me in—though maybe that’s his real motive in the end. His fingers return to my hair, parting the strands and testing the weight of a lock against his palm.
My chest tightens as I watch him. I half expect him to smell it, some primal action that would make more sense than what he actually does. He twists the stringy locks. Pets them.
“You are the key to that motherfucker,” he declares after a moment. “Inside you. That’s how I’ll destroy him.”
“You’re insane.” I croak, attempting to turn away.
