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“Look at me,” I stutter, wrapping my hands around his. My life is quite literally in his hands right now, and I don’t fear him. “It’s me,” I say, trying to force the words out of my crushed windpipe.
My vision starts to blacken and my ears ring. Pressure builds in my head before his hold on me loosens.
“Sloane.” He swallows, letting go of my neck and taking the gun away from me. “I’m so sorry. I—”
I hold my throat with both hands. “It’s okay,” I reassure him. “It was a dream.”
He shakes his head continuously. I place my hand on his wet chest. His heart is beating a million miles a minute.
“Are you hurt?” He grows concerned.
“Don’t worry about me.”
“How can you say that? I could have shot you, Sloane.”
“What happened?” I blinked. “In your dream.” I ignore his concern. I don’t want to talk about myself—not when he had a nightmare like that.
He sits up, pushing himself back against the headboard. He reaches his hand out to my neck and gently pulls me closer. I sit cross-legged at his side, my thigh resting on his stomach. He brushes the loose hair behind my ear. Looking deep into my eyes, he inches closer to my face and places his lips on the top of my head.
His demeanor shifted. His nightmare took complete control of him. IknewMikhail would never hurt me. But whoever hurt him in the past haunts him. Even behind shut eyes, he’s still troubled.
“In your dream ...” I don’t want to pressure him to talk, but my curiosity only grows. If he doesn’t want to share, then so be it. I wouldn’t want someone to force me to open up.
“It was my father,” he starts. “He was going after my older brother, and I tried to stop him.”
I look down instantly. His father. “He wasn’t a good person?” I ask, wanting to know more.
“No,” he whispers. “He was abusive.”
When the words fall from his lips, I instantly want him to confide. Keeping it to himself, he can push down the hurt and ignore the memories, but telling the story makes it true. And sometimes talking things through can help ease the pain.
“Did he ever hurt your sister?” I ask. I don’t know why I’m pushing him so hard. I should stop, but I think a part of me wants to know the story so I can be there to comfort him. I want to be the strong one.
It’s strange seeing Mikhail like this.
Defeated.
I remember Max telling me a little about why he’s so hot-headed. His father is probably the root cause of his anger.
“No.” He exhales. “Anya was never a part of that, thankfully. My real father had me and my brother, Kirill, but my adoptive father had Anya.”
“What did he do to you?”
Mikhail looks at me with concern. He doesn’t want to tell me. He shifts his body so his back is facing me.
I place my hand over the long scars on his back. I’ve seen them from a distance, but I’ve never paid attention to them when he’s near me without a shirt. He doesn’t want to talk about them, and he taught me a lesson for putting my nose somewhere it doesn’t belong. But now I see the scars are ragged and uneven. Some of the rooted cuts are much deeper than others.
“It was with a belt. I was seven when it started. I was trying to protect my brother. I got many punishments for protecting him.”
The notebook ...
Was that his way of keeping track of the consequences?
“Mikhail ...” I choke back tears.
“Hey, it’s all right.” He turns to face me, taking his thumb and wiping a tear off my cheek. “It made me strong.”
That’s why he’s so protective.
