My still-bruisedforearm aches as I finish my assignment, painstakingly typing the last words of my Cost-Efficiency Report. Once it’s finally sent in, I stretch back into my chair, massaging the stiff contusion lining the bone. It hurts way less now than it did at first, but every time Mikhail sees the purple blotches left behind on my arm, I see a wave of shame pass over his eyes.
I don’t like that he feels any guilt over the injury at all. If I had just snapped out of that strange dissociative episode a little faster and ran straight for safety, I would’ve been able to avoid getting hurt at all that night. Well, only because Mikhail came for me.
When I think back to that night, I genuinely wonder if I would’ve called the police without even hearing my ex-roommate’s threats against it. I can’t think of a single person in the entire world who would’ve taken care of me like he did that night. No one else would’ve rushed to protect me, or would’ve stayed on the phone with me, whispering calm instructions into my ear.
Standing up, phone in hand, I walk over to a nearby towel closet.
Time to face my other assignment.
As usual, the sight of the closed space sends a wave of fear down my spine, but each time I practice, it gets easier and easier to push past that initial despair.
I set the timer and slip into the dark space, breaths instantly doubling in speed as I work to acclimate to the familiar waves of panic pounding through my head.
“Breathe. Just breathe, Cass.” I whisper to myself, the words echoing into the stuffy, warm air. The minutes stretch in the same, teasing way they always do, each second spanning the length of two thumps in my chest?—
“Cassandra?”
The closet suddenly floods with light, Mikhail standing in the open space like some avenging angel.
I heave in a fresh gulp of air, crawling out of the space. He kneels down and then wraps an arm around me, pulling me into the safe confines of his lap.
“What are you doing, baby?” he asks, concern coating his features.
I look up at those deep blue eyes, apprehensive about admitting my weird habit.
“I… I’ve been practicing. At first, only with Sophia, but now I can handle it by myself.” I whisper, the words falling loud in the quiet room.
His eyebrows pull down, a look of sheer sadness flooding his features, so intense I wish I could fix it immediately, kiss it all away.
“Is this because of me? What I did—it made it even worse?” he asks, the words cracking and breaking in his throat.
“No, Mikhail, you didn’t make it worse. I was always like this, ever since…”
“Ever since what?” he asks, that thick protectiveness in his voice.
I sigh, leaning into his strong chest for comfort.
“When I was seventeen, my mom went away for a work trip. My step-dad—he and I never got along. He was always yelling at me and my mom, controlling how much we were allowed to eat, hitting us whenever we did something wrong.” I take a breath, preparing myself to return to the memory.
“Well, when she left that time, he started yelling at me again. He got me into one of our closets and locked the door. He left me there fordays. Sometimes he left the house, and I just spent the whole time anxiously listening for his return. He’d beat against the door and yell, trying to scare me as much as possible. I tried everything, hour after hour, but… I couldn’t get out.”
Rubbing comforting circles against my back, Mikhail presses a kiss to my forehead and then my cheek, brushing away a tear I don’t even notice falling.
“I’ll end his life for what he did to you.” The vengeful statement is said with such callous cruelty that my stomach flips, despite knowing the anger isn’t directed toward me. His arms tighten around my body before he continues.
“I’m so sorry I ever made you feel like that again. If I could take it all back…” He buries his face into the strands of my hair, pulling me even tighter against him. The proximity of his strength and warmth fills me with restored confidence.
I take a moment, preparing to voice the thought that I’d believed I would never share with anyone. The thought I had always assumed would die with me.
“I’ll be ending his pathetic life myself,” I say softly but not weakly, carefully examining Mikhail’s gaze for a single flicker of fear. Of disbelief. Of horror.
I find none.
“What a beautiful, avenging thing you are. I hope you’ll allow me to help.”
His supportive response to my darkest motivation, something I haven’t dared tell to anyone, much less say out loud to myself, settles the flicker of worry deep in my chest. Almost anyone else would’ve told me I was a monster for my violent confession, but Mikhail? He’s not scared of me.
He holds me closer, tells me how beautiful I am. He sees me for the powerful thing I want to be, and I fucking love him for it.
