When I finally reach her, I squat down to her level. She gives me no reaction, so I shift to touch her forehead, trying to assess how bad the wound is.
That’s when she moves.
Just as a vicious scream pierces my ears, her clenched palm breaks out from beneath her legs and swipes across my face. The burn of a cut runs all the way across my cheek as she drags a sharp edge across.
Blood pools from my fresh wound. I angle my gaze toward the clunk of metal hitting the ground—a small screw falling from her grip.
She breaks into sobs.
The sound hurts worse than the small cut ever could.Seriously, what the hell happened in here? I’m the only one with a key to this room.
In one fell swoop, I lift her into my arms. She fights a bit, but exhaustion and likely blood loss convince her to give in quickly enough. She shakes quietly in my arms as I walk her toward the elevator, but the second I step over the threshold, her fight renews, her screams restored. I helplessly grapple to maintain her in my hands as she struggles in my hold like a woman possessed.
“No, no, no, no,” she cries out when the elevator doors close around us.
“Let me out! Let me out!” She finally topples from my hold. She runs to the doors and smacks her palm against the metal, repeating the action again and again andagain.
“Cassandra, you’re safe,” I beg, grabbing her wrist to prevent her from injuring herself further. When I look down, though, I can see the blooming bruise from my brutal grip the night before, and my stomach turns in nauseating revolt.
Finally, the doors press open, Cassandra practically falling through them and onto my living room floor, beside the boots of my stunned men.
“Jesus, Mikhail, what did you do to her?” Ilya mutters, but I ignore his voice because it finally clicks together in my head.
The room. The elevator. The way she scratched and clawed her way out of the spaces like they were choking her, burning her alive.
It reminds me of how I acted growing up when someone was touching me. Like I was stuck in my own skin and couldn’t find a way out.
She’s probably claustrophobic. Badly claustrophobic.And I locked her in a room all alone.
“Forget her, what the hell happened to you?” Lev says, reminding me of her unexpected attack. The small act of retribution fills me with pride, and I use my hand to smear the cut across my face.
“Back up, give her space,” I command, ignoring my own advice as I move closer. This time, I double-check that her hands are empty beforeexamining her head. She’s still on the ground, curled in on herself once more, but visibly calming down in the wide open space of the living room.
“I’ll call Doc,” Ivan says beside me, rushing off in the direction of my office. A tap on my shoulder reveals Ilya, holding out a blanket for me to take. I gratefully accept it and wrap it around the poor girl. She’s still shivering, but I think that has more to do with the adrenaline.
I pick her up once more, walking just a few steps before depositing her small body on the couch.
“Cassandra,” I whisper, leaning in as close as I can manage. “What happened to your head, sweetheart?” Her eyes track my movement with suspicion. My breath hitches at the all-too-familiar reaction.
“Passed out, I think.” Her voice comes out scratchy and weak from all the screaming.
I can’t believe I put her through all of that. I should’ve realized her terror-filled scream was off when I first shut her in that room, but I was too emotional to think of anything but the sting of betrayal pulsing through my veins. If I’d have just known—my head squeezes in angry throbs, completely unrelated to the skin-deep cut still weeping from my cheeks. I hope it fucking scars. I deserve the reminder.
Her blanket slips from one of her shoulders, and I reach out to right it?—
“Don’t touch me!” Her scream stops me in my tracks.
How many times had I screamed the same thing as a kid, before everyone learned not to come near me? I snap my arm back, her request aching in my chest. I inadvertently tortured her with her own personalized trauma.How does someone come back from that?
How will she ever look at me again without remembering the pain?
Only a few minutes go by before there’s a knock at the door, but I spend the entire time counting her shallow breaths. They’re coming too slowly for my liking, but I’m pleased she seems to be calming down.
Doc hovers a few feet away, uneasily eyeing the chaos before him.
“I think she needs stitches. She hit her head,” I instruct, trying to keep my voice level and calm despite the anguish that burns through my vision. I can’t feel anything but the pain coursing down my arteries, throbbing with each memory and reminder of my actions.
She will never forgive me.
