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I say nothing, making my way across the room as my heart thumps in my chest. I try to slow my breathing, feeling grateful I put the hood on him earlier. I couldn’t handle someone looking at me right now. As good as I am at showing nothing and not reacting to pain or trauma, that doesn’t mean a girl doesn’t need a moment once in a while.
I don’t hesitate to go to my desk, to the liquor stashed within. It isn’t until the desk drawer closes and I sit down that Sin finally speaks.
“Tell me, is it the visions of the horrors you’ve committed against people that keeps you awake at night?”
I actually let out a laugh, glad my voice doesn’t shake when I reply. “Somehow, I doubt you’re the type of person to speak of horrors committed against others.”
I can’t see him smile, but I can hear it in his response. “That’s true.”
I pour my glass almost to the brim then lift it to take a long sip before sighing. Feeling calmer, I take a seat. Neither of us say anything as I finish my glass then refill it in short order. Somehow having someone in the room who isn’t talking, who can’t see me, is strangely comforting.
The room is dim with only one security light along the upper wall, barely illuminating the room, leaving the corners in shadow. The bulk of Sin’s form creates its own darkness, and with the liquor swimming in my blood, the blackness seems to dance around him.
“So if it's not guilt then what is it? What is it that keeps a woman like you awake at night? I’m curious,” he finally asks.
I consider the question a moment, spinning liquid around in the glass but keeping it from sloshing over the edges.
“The past,” I admit in a voice so quiet I don’t know if he can hear me. The small huff, almost a laugh, tells me he did.
“You and me both,” he returns in an equally quiet voice.
My hand finds the small burns on my arm without thinking, rubbing at them absently. I fill the glass once more then bring my eyes back up to his still form. Even with only shadows visible, the tension in his body is obvious. When I brought him up here, put that hood on him, I’d figured it would be worse than any form of torture I could do to a man like him. Pain means nothing, but freedom? Well, freedom means everything.
My head swims a bit with the vodka, and I take another sip before standing decisively. In a few big steps, I’m in front of Sin. His hood moves in my direction, but he says nothing. I reach a hand out, pulling it back when I see it’s shaking. Frowning, I put my hand out again, forcing it to stay steady as I pull the hood back.
Sin squints as his face is revealed, blinking a few times, thigh muscles clenching, before his gaze lands on me. I don’t let myself look away.
“Just for now,” I say, and he gives a short nod.
Satisfied, although unsure why, I go back to my desk and grab my drink once I’m seated.
We sit in silence for several minutes, and though I can feel his eyes on me, I don’t mind, which is unusual. Maybe it’s because he’s in chains I can feel so comfortable? I can’t say why, all I know is that the presence of someone else is comforting right now. The silence is too much, though. Silence reminds me of dark places.
“Tell me something about you,” I eventually say, sitting forward in my seat. A low, rumbling chuckle comes from his chest, but I cut him off before he can reply. “Anything, just something small.”
I don’t think he’s going to answer at all when he finally speaks.
“The vodka I smell on you reminds me of when I was young.” I watch his face closely, the way he crinkles his nose in disgust. His face transforms with his expressions, the scars making it more dynamic. It’s not ugly, at least not to me. They’re terribly interesting. I want to know how he got those scars.
“I hate drinking the shit, but that smell is home,” he finishes.
My head cocks to the side, eyes narrowing a touch as I watch him. I let the corner of my mouth turn up and hold up my glass.
“Mine as well, but I suppose you probably know that already. Still love to drink the stuff, though.”
I watch him closely for a reaction, but his face is impassive. Just the thought of my childhood, of Russia, brings on unbidden fury, and rage rises inside me. I feel it surging as I slam my hand down, and the glass shatters, shards and liquor flying everywhere. I hold in a hiss from the sting as the vodka finds its way into the cut on my palm, but I can’t stop my chest from heaving as memories overwhelm me.
“Run, boy!”
Water roars in my ears, but the dogs are still louder.
“Let him go….”
“Are you alright?”
I blink at the voice and look up to see Sin, chained across from me in my office. A small drip brings my attention back to my hand, bleeding slowly onto the desk. What the fuck just happened?
“Are you alright?” he repeats, and I wonder if it's only the second time. Or why he cares.
