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“I don’t know how hard it’ll be, but try to stay,” he continues.
“I can’t do that. I’m not as emotionless as him and won’t possibly be able to watch him with her every day.”
“I don’t think it’ll be every day.”
I smile, but only because Viktor sounds weird in his attempts to offer support.
“Just let me leave, Viktor.”
He shakes his head once. “I can’t do that. Boss asked me to bring you to him as soon as you wake up.”
My lips purse. Of course he’d want to make the wound deeper.
It’s already ugly. Why does he have to rub salt in it, too?
“If you let me go, no one will know, and I’ll be out of your hair.”
His expression doesn’t change. “You can either come with me willingly or by force.”
“Is there a third option where I walk out this door, and you erase the security footage?”
“No.”
I release a long sigh. “You’re like a damn wall.”
He doesn’t react to that and starts walking in the direction of the basement.
“What is he doing down there?” I ask to distract myself from thinking about the doomsday-like feeling of having to see Kirill.
Viktor, however, doesn’t answer. The heavy weight of his steps contrasts with my lighter ones, and I grab the duffel bag’s strap tighter.
Kirill usually comes down here when he’s either in the mood to torture someone or for the home theatre.
I really hope it’s the second option.
Viktor stops in front of Kirill’s underground suite. I’ve been here before, and it looks a lot like his room upstairs, minus the balcony and the view.
“Are you going to go in as well?” I ask Viktor almost pleadingly.
To my horror, he shakes his head and motions at the door. I contemplate running, but that’s impossible with Viktor here—unless I shoot him, and I don’t want to do that.
I inhale deeply to dispel the shaking in my limbs and push the door open. It automatically clicks shut behind me, and I flinch, then I immediately scold myself.
What the fuck am I being so jumpy about? I’m not the one in the wrong here. He is.
And I’m not going to cower away from him.
It’s just that…the wound is too fresh and too raw. I don’t know if I can stop myself from being emotional when facing him.
And he’s an apathetic psycho. If I’m the one being all over the place while he’s calmly standing there, it’ll look like I’m the irrational, crazy one, when it’s the other way around.
“Going somewhere, Sasha?”
I freeze and stare at the dark corner where his voice came from. The dim lighting of the room makes him look like a devil slithering out of hell.
He has one hand in his pocket and the other wrapped around a glass of whiskey. There’s a cut on his lower lip, exactly like the one on mine from when we warred last night.
Despite having his glasses on, his eyes pierce right through me, and it takes everything in me to stare back without feeling the need to bolt.
“I want to quit,” I say in a surprisingly leveled voice.
A cruel smirk lifts his lips. “You can quit, but you can’t leave.”
“I’m getting out of here. I don’t care if you agree or disagree.”
“You’re already packed and probably believe what you’re saying, too.” He steps toward me, and my legs shake, demanding I retreat, but it’s too late when he stops in front of me and lifts my chin with two fingers. “I told you this last night, but I’ll repeat it again, in case you were too drunk to remember. You can never leave me. That option isn’t on the table, under the table, or even in the fucking room.”
I let the duffel bag fall to the floor and slap his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”
He shoots for my neck this time, but I jump out of reach. My eyes must be blazing with volcanic anger.
“Sasha…” he warns.
“Don’t Sasha me. You have a Kristina now, don’t you? Go to her to fulfill your twisted fetishes.”
“If you keep acting like this, I will.”
My lips part.
“You don’t like that, do you? The idea of me touching her has turned your face into that of a ghost. So stop being difficult and accept that she means nothing. Absolutely. Nothing.”
I shake my head a few times. I can feel the emotions rushing through me and the fight slowly leaving my limbs. I don’t want to feel this way, but I do.
“I can’t watch you with her. Even if you say she means nothing, she’ll be your wife, and I can’t put myself through that. Don’t make me, Kirill.” I approach him and take his hand in my shaking one. “If I ever meant anything to you, spare me this torture and let me go.”
His jaw tightens, and his hand feels stiff and heavy in mine. “No.”
