by LP Lovell
“Sasha?” I whisper, hope caressing me with gentle fingers.
There’s a loud click that splits the tentative silence in the room. With it comes a tiny burst of light in the form of a dancing flame. The amber glow passes over the tanned skin and jet-black hair of none other than Enrique. Fear skates the length of my spine, and a sense of unease settles over me. He pauses with the lighter to his face for a moment before it snaps shut with finality. The cherry-red glow of his cigarette replaces it.
He inhales deeply, sending a demonic tinge over his features. “No.” He says nothing more for long moments, and with each passing second of silence, my heart seems to beat harder. Smoke drifts around him before crawling out the window and catching in the moonlight. “I’m not your Russian. Do you dream of him, principessa? Do you think he’ll save you from me?”
My mind gallops through all the things I could and should say. “I must have been.”
A small laugh slips from his throat before he places the cigarette to his lips once more. “You were…attached to him.”
“We spent a lot of time together. He was a friend.”
“A friend.” He laughs, and not for the first time, I feel like I’m missing some private joke. He comes closer until he’s standing at the end of the bed in the darkness. “Such a beautiful irony.” I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean. “Was he just a friend to you?” There’s no missing the edge to his voice.
“Yes,” I say, the word barely a squeak.
“Hmm.” He holds up his hand, and the dull moonlight catches on something in his hand. It glints and shimmers in the darkness, like a gem…or a diamond. “You must have dropped this,” he says, the accusation hanging in the air.
I look at the ring and then back at him, though I can barely make out either in the dark. “Must have. I’m not used to wearing it yet,” I say, clearing my throat.
“Or maybe you think you are betraying your Russian.”
“I told you; he was my friend,” I say carefully.
He moves around the bed and takes a seat on the edge. It’s only then that I smell the over-powering scent of whiskey. “So he never…touched you?”
I hear it now, the slur in his words. He’s drunk. He places the ring on the bedside table before tugging the covers away from me. His hand lands on the bare skin of my thigh. I still instantly, my mind racing through all the ways this could go and all the ways I can get away from him. The cigarette is clasped between his fingers as his hand shifts up my thigh an inch. The tiny sleep shorts I’m wearing leave me completely exposed, and I only now realize how naïve I’ve been to see this room as a safe place. This is his house. He can get to me anytime, whenever he likes.
“Well?” he prompts.
I can feel the heat of the cigarette barely caressing my other leg, threatening to burn me. I swallow heavily. “No.”
His hand slides higher and higher, and I want to fight him with everything I am, but I don’t. There’s an edge to him now, something dangerous unleashed under the influence of alcohol. I sense it in the air as prey senses a nearby predator. I must tread carefully. If I give him a fight, he’ll destroy me, and he wants it. I can see it in his eyes. He’s waiting for the opportunity to shatter me.
Hot ash drops from the cigarette to my skin, but I refuse to flinch away. His eyes fixate on the apex of my thighs so innocently covered in thin cotton. “You kissed me,” he says. With his free hand, he grabs my chin, sweeping his thumb sloppily over my bottom lip. “So sweet, Adelina.” His grasp becomes hard and bruising, and his other hand moves from my thigh to my crotch, grabbing it through my pajama bottoms.
I’m degraded and, and yet, I know this is only the tip of the iceberg.
“Sweet, like the apple in the garden of Eden.” One finger traces beneath the seam of my shorts, and I bite the inside of my cheek to stop the tears welling.
Be strong, Adelina. You are a lion. I’m not sure I want my father’s words echoing through my mind right now, but it helps somewhat. It reminds me why I must endure. I brace myself for the worst, and then he removes the offending hand. I exhale a trembling breath. A twisted smile dances over his lips, and I know he enjoys watching me squirm.
“Don’t worry, principessa. I won’t take you until our wedding night. The riper the fruit, the sweeter it tastes.” He chuckles, and I go cold. His eyes sweep over my face, studying me. “I’ve wanted you for so long, and the moment I had you, your father denied me.” He grits his teeth, and as his anger intensifies, so do does his hold on me. His fingers dig into my jaw hard. And my already abused inner lip grinds over my teeth, coating my tongue in blood. Enriques eyes roam over my face, and for the first time, I see something I always expected but will never be ready for—his lust. “Maybe if you weren’t so pretty…”
He brings the cigarette to my face, so close that I can feel the heat of the glowing tobacco. His thumb slips to my throat as he feels my racing pulse. I’m terrified, but I’ve given him enough. He will not have my dignity. I will not beg or try to appeal to a creature like him.
“You’re scared.”
I don’t answer at first, and it seems to agitate him further. “You have all the power. I’d be stupid not to fear you.”
His hold loosens, and he strokes his fingertips over my face so gently, like a lover’s caress. “Kiss me,” he orders. “Like you mean it this time.”
“I did mean it,” I lie.
He huffs a laugh and leans closer. “If you meant it, you wouldn’t turn to stone when I touch your pussy.”
Embarrassment and anger swirl together, and I know my face is every shade of red. On a deep breath, I lean closer to him. The scent of cigarette smoke and whiskey permeates the air in a cloying fog. I shuffle closer still, but he makes no move toward me, forcing me to come to him all the way. I awkwardly tilt my head and press my lips to his. I’m stiff and uncomfortable. I don’t know where to put my hands, or what to do because it’s all so un-natural. He allows me to remain there with my lips pressed to his for long seconds. Finally, he breaks, and it’s almost a relief. His hand winds through my hair, and he yanks my head back. It’s all the opportunity he needs to thrust his tongue past my lips. I have to fight the urge to gag. He drops his hand from my hair to my pajama shirt, tugging it until I hear a sharp tear, and then his hand is on my breast. My mind wavers, caught between the instinctual need to get away from him and the knowledge that this is what I have to do. He paws at me while mauling my mouth for long moments, and then he finally shoves away. My gaze drops to the sheets in front of me as shame crawls over my skin like insects. He says nothing, and my body tenses under the silence.
His fingers wind around my jaw once more, and he tilts my head back, forcing me to look at him. He places what’s left of the cigarette to his lips, drawing the last bit of life from it. Then he leans in, brushing his lips over mine. “Not good enough, principessa,” he says, blowing smoke over my lips with every word until I’m choking on it. A sick smile crosses his lips before he yanks my head to the side abruptly. Then he stamps the cigarette into my neck, right at the base where it meets my shoulder
I grit my teeth hard enough that they grind over each other. Enrique wants me to scream, so I don’t—I refuse to give him that pleasure. I inhale sharp breaths unable to tear my focus from that tiny spot of blinding pain. I swear, I can feel my skin melting. I’m not sure if he’s finally satisfied or simply realized that I’m not going to give him what he wants, but he stops. Without a word, he pushes to his feet and walks out of the room, locking my door behind him. I sit there, with my shirt torn and my breast exposed. My neck throbs, and finally, I allow my tears to fall. I feel violated and dirty, and I know this isn’t even the beginning. He can make my life so much worse. Enrique can do whatever he wants to me because even if I fight him, what chance do I have? And in this place, I have no allies. The few I had, I’ve shunned. No one will save me, not if I scream or beg. This is what I chose though. These are the horrors I must endure and the sacri
fices I must make.
Swiping at my face, I swallow down my self-pity and crawl out of bed. Going into the bathroom, I turn on the down lighting around the mirror. I didn’t remove the layers of make up before I crawled into bed, and thick, black mascara lines now bleed down my face, like paint running down a ruined canvas. What was once pretty is now an ugly, sad story. My gaze drops to the angry red spot that mars the base of my neck, almost at my collar bone. The skin is raw and weeping already. I dig around in one of the bathroom drawers and remove a washcloth before soaking it in cold water. My teeth snap together on a hiss as soon as I press it to the tiny patch of blistered skin. I have to ask myself why. Perhaps he wanted to punish me for taking the ring off, or maybe he just likes hurting women, demonstrating his power. Of course, he could simply be a horrible drunk. Either way, he gave me a glimpse of what he’s capable of, and though it scares me, knowledge is power. I feel better simply for knowing how this will pan out. It’s the waiting and the not knowing that weigh heavily on the mind. After a few minutes, I remove the cloth and manage to find an antiseptic cream and a band aid.
When I finish, I turn off the light and crawl back into bed. For the first time all night, I fall asleep and stay asleep.
7
Sasha
I stand beneath the dim glow of the streetlight. Snow swirls around me in a vortex of white, making it impossible to see anything in the darkness beyond. Through the howling wind, I hear what sounds like a cry for help. I whip around frantically, trying to find the source of the sound. A hand lands on my arm and I turn, bringing a knife to the person’s throat. I blink.
“Adelina?” A fur hood is pulled up over her head, hiding her eyes, but I recognize the bow of her lips. I reach out and place a finger beneath her chin, tipping her head back. Her skin is pale and ice-cold, though a blush touches her cheeks. Tiny drops of moisture cling to dark lashes that frame those deep-blue eyes. She’s more perfect than I ever remembered.
Wordlessly, she pushes up on tiptoes and grasps my face in both her hands. Those chilled lips brush over mine, and I’m suddenly no longer cold. She breathes life into me. Warmth seeps through my skin until it feels like my very bones are burning. Time stands still, and everything stops. The wind no longer shrieks past me, battering my cheeks. It’s just…silent and still. All I can hear is each intermingled beat of our hearts, the soft inhale of her breaths. I close my eyes, basking in her glow.
“I miss you,” I confess, breaking the silence.
Her thumb strokes over the corner of my lip, and she rests her forehead against mine. “I know.”
My hands glide over her waist, pulling her closer. “Don’t leave.”
Her thumb continues to brush in soft circles, and she presses her lips to mine once more. “I’m sorry,” she breathes against my mouth.
Sudden pain lances through my stomach, and I choke on a cough, as the metallic tang of blood coats my tongue. I pull back and focus on her face, on the glassy tears that now cling to her cheeks like diamonds.
“I’m sorry.” Her head tilts to the side, fingertips stroking over my lips as the tears continue to fall. When she pulls them away, they’re tipped in crimson.
With a staggered step back, I look down at the handle of the blade that protrudes from my stomach. “Why, malyshka?”
No reply. When I look up, she’s gone. The screaming wind intrudes once more, the snow wiping away all traces of her as though she never was. I drop to my knees and yank out the blade. Blood spills free, spattering across the snow beneath me. I press my hand to the wound, feeling the warm liquid pour through my fingers.
“Adelina,” I gasp as I fall to my back onto the cold ground. That orange light blurs above me behind the swirl of the blizzard. And then everything goes black.
I blink open my eyes and glance around the room in confusion. I’m back in my room in Nero’s Hamptons house. That pain lances through my stomach again and intensifies as I try to sit up. I look down at the bandages wrapped around my bare torso. Tossing the bedspread back, I swing my legs over the edge of the mattress. Memories swirl together in a blur. Getting shot and stabbed. Reality and dream distort until I can’t tell one from the other. I was shot, but she stabbed me. Something tugs at my arm, an IV attached to a blood bag still two-thirds full. I grab the cannula and rip it out, sending a thin trail of blood trickling over my forearm.
The door clicks open, and Tommy walks in with a syringe and needle in hand. He pauses, freezing like a rabbit in headlights when he sees me.
“Uh, you’re up.”
“So, it would seem.”
He nods, offering me a sheepish smile. “Una told me to give you this.” He holds up the syringe, and I narrow my eyes.
“Do you even know what you’re doing?”
He shrugs. “Sure. Just a jab in the butt and you’re grand.” How reassuring.
“Where is Una?”
He fidgets uncomfortably. “Downstairs.”
Which begs the question, why isn’t she here? Instead, she sends Tommy, of all people. The boy is useless. I push to my feet with a grunt, and my head spins. I take a few steps toward the door, and Tommy moves in front of me. I’m not sure if he’s brave or stupid at this point.
“Move.”
“Um, you lost blood. You probably shouldn’t be walking around.”
“Move.”
He ducks his chin. “Sure.” He shifts to the side. “But you need this.” He waves the syringe at me, and I snatch it from his fingers.
I twist around, sending pain lancing through my stomach as I tug the waistband of my tracksuit pants down and jab the needle into my butt cheek. When I finish, I hand the syringe back to him and leave the room.
The house is mainly quiet, but I can hear the distant notes of classical music drifting along the corridors. I follow the sound to the living room where I find Nero. He’s staring at his phone as he clutches a tumbler of whiskey in his free hand. The amber liquid swirls around the glass, sending ice clinking against the sides.
“Where’s Una?” I ask.
He glances up, one brow hiking. “Around,” he says cryptically.
I say nothing, sensing there’s more.
He pushes to his feet and slips his phone into his pocket. “She didn’t think you’d be up yet.” He jerks his head toward my stomach. “Lacerated liver.”
“I’ve had worse.”
His eyes narrow, his lips flattening into a thin line.
I can sense the tension in the air, visible in the rigid set of his shoulders. Something’s wrong. “Well, I’ll go find Una.”
He says nothing as I slowly turn away, feeling his eyes on me the entire time. I leave the room and go in search of his wife. I finally find her upstairs in the playroom. Dante is straddling a rocking horse, his little hands clapping together excitedly as she holds him in place. They smile indulgently at one another. I’ve been around them a lot now, but I can still scarcely comprehend this version of Una with the girl I grew up with. She’s so gentle with him and so utterly ruthless with anyone else. I know she senses my presence by the slight tightening of her shoulders. The smile falls from her face the second she looks at me, and a coldness I’ve rarely seen takes over her features.
“You shouldn’t be up,” she says.
“So I’m told.”
She turns away from me and scoops up Dante, moving past me wordlessly. “Go back to bed, Sasha,” she says, still walking away from me.
“I’m fine.”
“Just go,” she snaps.
“What is wrong with you?”
She halts mid-stride and takes a visible, deep breath, her shoulders rising and falling with the action. Slowly, she turns around, adjusting Dante on her hip. Pulling him close to her chest, she places her hand over his ear. “What’s wrong with me?” The words hiss past her lips with a snarl. “Don’t you think I should be the one asking you that?” Her eyes are hard, promising violence, but I frown because I don’t know why she’s upset. She shakes her head and tu
rns away once more, walking down the hall.
I don’t know whether to stay or follow. I don’t have to though. She disappears inside Dante’s room and comes back a few moments later without him. She stalks past me and descends the stairs with me trailing her. We end up in the kitchen. She grips the edge of the breakfast bar and drops her head forward.
“I have a child, Sasha.”
“I’m aware.”
Those indigo eyes snap to mine. “Are you? Because you don’t seem to care if you leave him without a mother.” Her fingers tighten on the edge of the bar until I hear her knuckles crack. “You nearly got both of us killed in that warehouse. You acted like an untrained recruit.”
The comment burrows beneath my skin like a parasite and has me clenching my fists. “We’ve survived worse.”
She shoves away from the breakfast bar and storms over to me, getting so close that her chest bumps against mine I instinctively flinch away as pain radiates through my torso. Her finger jabs into my chest, and I know she’s doing it deliberately. Touch is not something either of us exchange because we know how uncomfortable it makes the other. A low-grade buzz hums over my skin, the urge to lash out riding me hard, but I quell it.
“We survive when we have to, not because you put us in an unnecessary situation.” She shakes her head, and the muscle in her jaw tics. “You’re better than that, Sasha.”
Truthfully, I can barely even remember what happened on that job. I just remember shooting and getting shot and…the anger. Irrational and wild, and all-consuming.
“What is wrong with you?”
“I’m fi—”
“Do not say you are fine!” she snaps, turning her back to me. She walks away and resumes her position at the bar as though she’s trying to keep it between us. “You’ve never been so far from fine. So talk.”
I frown. “There’s nothing to talk about.”