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Now, it’s just one more thing he can use to manipulate me.
“My claustrophobia isn’t even that bad,” I yell over the sound of the onrushing wind. "It was just…a hard day. I'm normally fine."
The lie sits between us, heavy and awkward. I'm not accustomed to lying. There's little reason to be good at it in my life.
"I’m sure that’s why you ride a bike everywhere,” he chuckles. “Because your claustrophobia is so manageable."
I'm glad he can't see my face because my cheeks burn with embarrassment. “It’s good exercise, jerk.”
But it’s a lame protest and he knows it. He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel a laugh vibrate through his chest.
I want to squeeze until he can’t breathe. Maybe then he’ll understand how I feel during an attack. I could hook my hands around the muscled walls of his chest, tightening until his ribs compress. UntilI’mthe reason he’s terrified and trembling.
Maybe then he would understand how I feel now.
I’m not trapped in a small space, but the walls are closing in on me in a new way. If I don’t get away from Timofey Viktorov soon, I’ll never escape.
It’s a funny thought to have when I’m willingly pressing my body against his. The heat of him soaks through my clothes. It’s comforting, and I find myself leaning against him more and more. A few times, I even rest my cheek on his back and close my eyes, giving myself over to the rumble of the motor and the vibration of the road beneath the tires.
As we navigate through his neighborhood, though, my guard starts to come back up. The freedom I felt on the road dissipates.
In a matter of minutes, I’ll be inside the literal walls of his house again. I have to remember who this man is. What he has done. What he’s still capable of doing.
“How often do you find yourself throwing people in jail?” I ask as he downshifts and the engine calms from a wide-open roar to a purring rumble.
“Why? Interested in forming a support group?”
“I just want to know if I should expect it again soon.”
He shakes his head. “That’s up to you.”
“Not exactly. I definitely didn’t choose to go to jail the first time.”
We’re driving slower now, cruising through his rich neighborhood surrounded by ancient, leafy trees and the sudden appearance of a metal gate every so often. I can see a few houses over the stone fences, but they’re all set far away from the road and from each other.
Far enough apart that your neighbors would never hear you scream.
“You could have chosen to obey me,” he muses. “You didn’t.”
“Well, with choices like the ones you’re offering, I’m sure I’m not the first innocent person you’ve imprisoned.”
“No one around me is truly innocent,” he says just as we pull through the gates to his house.
“I am.”
“Youthinkyou are,” he fires back. “You’re wrong.”
I lean forward, trying to catch a glimpse of his face. All I can see is the slope of his jawbone. The long line of his neck. I could frame this view and sell it as fine art. The man is stunning.
He must feel me fidget, because he glances over his shoulder. His blue eyes catch mine, stroking over my face before he faces forward again.
“I’ve known too many people like you,” he continues. “You pretend to be good. Maybe you even fool yourself from time to time into thinking what you’re doing is noble. But I know better. Deep down, so do you.”
The pieces click together all at once. I’m kind of shocked I didn’t already arrive at this conclusion.
“How long were you in foster care before you were adopted?” I ask.
Timofey lifts his chin and parks his motorcycle in front of the house. “Long enough.”
