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It feels like his palm is vacuum sealed over my mouth. The restriction pushes all the same triggers as sitting in a small room. My skin starts to itch and my chest constricts as the claustrophobia fights for control of my fear center.
I know I’m not going to die. Not right this second, anyway. Timofey isn’t actually stopping me from breathing.
But my body doesn’t know that.
My lungs are frozen and I jerk upright, desperate for air. It’s like I’m drowning in my own fear, thick and black and terrifying.
“I told you refusing me was a mistake.” He removes his hand and watches me struggle to catch my breath. “All of this could have been avoided.”
“Are you going to kill me?” I croak.
Timofey has the audacity to smirk innocently. “Kill you? What would make you think that?”
“You broke into my fucking house!”
“It wasn’t exactly breaking in.” He lifts his hand and I catch a hint of silver between his fingers. “I used a key.”
“But I don’t keep a spare—” The words lodge in my throat when I see the neon pink “A” painted on the top of the key.Ashley’s.“Where did you get that?”
“You know exactly where I got it.”
Without thinking about it, I lunge forward, arms outstretched. Timofey bats me away easily.
“Where is she?” I hiss. “What did you do with her?”
He casually pockets the key. “What did I do with Ashley? Nothing. There was no need."
"I know she didn't give you that voluntarily."
"The way I found her, she wasn't capable of giving anyone anything. She might have a drug problem, did you know?"
"What thefuckdid you do to her?" I practically scream.
"I kicked in her flimsy front door and she didn't even wake up. Your friend is fine."
I have no reason to trust Timofey, but I believe him. If he hurt her, he’d tell me. He’d rub my nose in it, actually. So if he's saying he didn’t hurt her, it must be true.
Still, the thought of Ashley tucked into her bed while Timofey peruses through the key cup next to her front door is enough to make me feel nauseous.
“I could have just broken into your place,” he continues. “By the looks of it, your window frames are rotted out and your bolt isn’t strong enough to make more than a moment’s difference. But I thought this illustrated my point a little more clearly.”
His eyes trace over my face and across my shoulder. I’m wearing a tank top from high school. The material is tissue paper thin, and suddenly, I feel vulnerable in more ways than one.
I jerk my comforter up over my chest and do my best to look brave. “What point is that?”
“I know more about you than you think,” he whispers, leaning in close. “I know you need the money I’m offering you. Badly.”
“You knew that before I even left your house this morning. You didn’t need to break in for that.”
“True. But breaking in did reveal one thing.” He holds up the manila folder I stuffed in my purse on my way out of the office this evening. “I know you didn’t fill out your report about our meeting this morning. Do you know what that tells me?”
I honestly don’t. I wish I did.
I lied to Andrea about the meeting being rescheduled, but I tried several times today to sit down and write the truth. I tried to capture my experience with Timofey Viktorov in a few paragraphs. To succinctly explain why he is the single most intimidating, terrifying man I’ve ever met.
It was impossible.
So I brought the file home and hoped being back in my safe space would help. But I couldn’t even bring myself to pull the file out of my purse.
