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I desperately need to hold on to something, so I cling to his gaze. He lets me. He doesn’t close his eyes or hide his pleasure. He gives it to me truthfully. He shows me the rawness that reflects in my body.
True to his word, he’s there for me when my body bows and the climax tears me apart. I turn warm inside. He fills me up with his release, pumping as if he’s set on making me take every drop. I’m drowning in his heat, his smell, and the angry undercurrent that’s always present between us, especially during his release. I’m high on endorphins, floating in a euphoric space. Vaguely, I’m aware of him taking something from his pocket and pushing it against my neck. The sharp prick of a needle registers too late.
My vision swims, and I start to drift away. Straining my neck, I force my head up and desperately try to claw my way through the haze. I try to hold on to that ice-green stare with all my might, but it slips out of my reach.
His words are soft, spoken in Russian. “Let go, Minochka.”
The beautiful sound of his mother tongue strokes over my senses, as does the term of endearment.
Poisonous words.
Poison seems fitting.
He catches my head when my neck fails to support the weight.
He’s still inside me when I drag in a final, laborious breath. The last word I speak when I blow out that breath is his name.
Part III
14
Mina
The nightmare is horrendous. I’m back in the car with my parents, seconds before we take the bend in the road. I ask for a cookie. My mother smiles back at me. Her hair is loose and soft around her face. My father takes her hand. She tells me I have to wait a little bit longer. We’ll have dinner soon. My body jerks forward as my father slams on the brakes. The man taps on his window with a gun, his lips pulled back over his gums in a grin.
I scream and scream.
“Mina!”
Shaking. Somebody shakes the car with me still inside. My brain sloshes in my skull. My head hurts. Mommy. Daddy. Their eyes are open, but they’re not replying. “No!”
More shaking. “Mina.” A hard voice, speaking in Russian. “Wake up.”
That voice. The rough timbre is familiar. There’s a memory of strong hands cradling my head, a gentle voice urging me to let go. I want to heed it, to sink back into the darkness where dreams don’t exist, but the shaking won’t let me. A warning pierces through the daze, and that too won’t let me go.
Yan.
It’s like a knife jabbed into my chest.
Gasping, I jerk into a sitting position.
“Easy.” The strong hands from my memory push me down.
My back hits a soft surface. I blink, battling to focus. The light makes the pain in my head worse.
“Drink this.”
A hand folds under my nape and lifts my head. My gaze collides with an ice-green one. Yan stares at me soberly.
He slips a pill onto my tongue and brings a bottle of water to my lips. “For the headache.”
I’m alive. “You didn’t kill me,” I mutter, battling to make sense of anything.
“I gave you a sedative.”
“But the dinner…”
He arches a brow, waiting for me to finish.
“The fancy crockery, the wine,” I continue hoarsely, “it was a last meal.”
“You needed to stock up on energy for the long trip.”
I lick my dry lips. “How long have I been out for?”
He checks his watch. “Twenty hours.”
I look around in panic. The room is small but modern. The white walls are adorned with framed photographs. They’re black-and-white landscapes. “Where am I?”
“Prague.”
I try to sit up again. “What?”
He prevents me. “You’re at my place. Keep still. The sedative was strong. It needs to work itself out of your system.”
“Ah.” Ilya’s bulky frame appears in the door. “You’re awake.”
Yan tenses. “Barely. Give her a moment.”
Ilya’s expression turns sour, but he leaves.
Yan puts the water on the nightstand. “You should drink as much as you can. Your body needs fluids. It’ll help with the pain. Much of the headache is due to dehydration.”
“You didn’t kill me,” I say again, posing the phrase as a question.
He smiles, but it’s not friendly.
Immense relief flows through me, and then the anger hits. “You let me believe you were going to kill me.”
He gives me a strange look. “I’d never kill you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“What don’t you get?”
“Why am I here?”
“Rest for now,” he says tersely. “We’ll talk about that later.”
“Why don’t you tell me now?”
He pats my hand that lies on top of the covers. “Get your strength back.” His voice drops an octave. “You’re going to need it.”
“Wait,” I say when he turns for the door, but he leaves and closes it behind him.
Rigid, I prick up my ears for the turn of a key. Nothing. He didn’t lock me in.
