Once again, I’m left in the dark, blind to the world around me. I have zero memory of how I got here in the first place. I’ve never seen the street, a single building or any of the cars. There’s nothing in my memory apart from a weird feeling of having been constantly tired with lots ofdarkness in between, gaps where time and awareness should be.
Kind of like now.
Me, in the dark about every aspect of my life.
"How long were you down there?" Roman asks, his voice cutting through the silence.
I realize for the first time that he’s been speaking perfect English this entire time. His accent is there, but it’s lighter than his father’s and definitely not as thick as Madam Belova’s.
"I don't..." The words hurt coming out, but I push through it. "Counted New Year's, seven times."
“Hmm.”
From that hum, I can tell he already knew. Does that mean he’d always known I was down there? I want to ask him so many questions, but I’ll have to wait until my throat is better and if I see him again after tonight.
"You turned eighteen last month,” he adds. “October.”
I stare ahead, my mouth open, shocked that I actually did turn eighteen and last month was apparently my birthday. Also… Roman sure knows a lot about me. He doesn’t speak again until the car stops in front of what looks like an apartment building.
"This is it," he says, getting out and opening my door.
I try to move my legs to exit the car, but I can’t. They feel dead, not cooperating with my brain.
He lifts one brow. "We’re here. Get out."
Roman’s tone reminds me of Grigori’s. I don’t want to make him angry, so I try again, grabbing the door frame and giving it another go. This time my legs fold instantly. They’re done for, no strength left for tonight. I brace myself to hit the ground when Roman catches my elbow before I fall. I draw in a breath, managing a tiny step as my bare foot hits thefrozen pavement. Pain immediately shoots through my heel. I gasp and yank my foot up.
His gaze follows to the ground. "You're bleeding."
He mutters something in Russian, bends and lifts me, holding me across his chest. He carries me into the building, up three flights of stairs without slowing, as if I weigh nothing.
Inside the apartment, he sets me on the couch. I look around, just for a second, before the sound of metal makes my stomach drop.
I turn my head to see Roman standing at the door, sliding a second lock into place.
The basement only had one lock. He adds another and my breathing gets faster, shallow. My pulse races as panic begins to drown me. I stare at him, the truth or my situation finally sinking. Roman didn’t rescue me to set me free; he simply took me from one cage to another.
"Stay there.” It’s not a request.
He leaves the living room, and I hear the faint sound of water running and a cabinet door opening. He comes back carrying a first-aid kit, a bowl of water and a towel.
"Let me see your foot."
He kneels in front of me, holding out his hand. I pull back on instinct, uncomfortable at having someone this close to me after so many years.
"You have glass in your foot. Either I take it out or it gets infected. We both don’t want to deal with that,” he says in a tight voice. “Let me see it.”
I hesitate then slowly extend my foot. He takes it and I go still, fixing my gaze on the wall and trying not to react to the warmth of his hand on my skin. A few seconds pass and I end up peeking at him, watching quietly the way he turns my foot toward the light, inspecting the sole.
"Yeah,” he mutters. “It’s all the way in there.”
He opens the kit, pulling out a fresh pair of tweezers. “This is going to hurt."
I nod. Everything already does. Roman works quickly, his brows drawn together as he gets a grip on the shard and tugs it free. I clamp my teeth, gripping the edge of the couch to keep from crying out and embarrassing myself. He then sprays an antiseptic that burns so much I squeeze my eyes shut.
"Almost done,” he says, wrapping gauze and bandage around it. “Now I’m done.”
He releases my foot and stands, taking the supplies with him. When he comes back, he stops in front of me, holding out a glass of water. I take it, but I don’t drink it.
