I walk toward the windows, my feet moving without conscious thought. The view is dizzying—the city spread out below us, lights twinkling like stars. And there, right there… my apartment building. I can see it clearly, can even make out which windows are mine. The living room where I sit on my couch. The bedroom where I sleep. Where I…
"Mara." Ilya's voice comes from behind me, careful and low. "Come with me. You need to clean up."
I turn to look at him. He's standing a few feet away, giving me space, his expression unreadable. In the soft light of his penthouse’s living room, I can see him clearly. He’s as handsome as ever, standing there in surprisingly casual clothing. He must have been relaxing when he…
Howdidhe know what was happening?
My mind is too tired to sort through the possibilities. He did know, and that’s all that really matters. I’m here now, and I can see from the set of his jaw, the possessive gleam in his eyes, that he has no intention of letting me go.
I nod, exhaustion sweeping over me. I'm covered in blood. I need to clean up. Those are simple facts, manageable tasks in a world that's become unmanageable.
He leads me through the penthouse and upstairs to a bedroom. The master bedroom, I assume, though it's larger than my entire apartment. There’s a king-size platform bed with expensive-looking linens, more art on the walls, and another wall of windows with that same sprawling view of the city. The bathroom is through a door on the right. It’s all marble and glass with a shower that could fit four people and a soaking tub that looks like it belongs in a spa.
Ilya goes to the sink and turns on the water, testing the temperature with his hand. Steam rises, and he adjusts it.
"Come here," he says, and his voice is gentler than I've ever heard it.
I move toward him mechanically. What’s the point in fighting? I’m here, and I can’t escape. I’m too tired to run even if I could think of where I would go that would be safe.
He takes my hands in his, and his touch is surprisingly careful, almost tender. He holds my hands under the running water, and I watch the blood swirl down the drain. Pink at first, then clearer, as he scrubs gently at my hands with a cloth and soap that smells like honey. He pumps more soap into his palm and lathers my hands, his fingers working between mine, cleaning under my nails, washing away the evidence of what I did. The intimacy of the gesture is jarring. This man who's been watching me, stalking me, terrorizing me, is now washing blood from my hands with the gentleness of a lover.
I stare at my hands, half-expecting the blood to return, smearing my skin permanently. But except for the flecks beneath my fingernails, Ilya has washed me clean… there, at least. He must have experience with this, I think dimly.
I start shaking again. My whole body is trembling, my teeth chattering even though I'm not cold.
"It's shock," Ilya says quietly, turning off the taps. "Your body is processing the trauma. It's normal."
Normal.Nothing about this is normal.
I can still hear the sound of the sculpture connecting with that man’s skull. I can still see the blood, his eyes going unfocused.
I killed him. I killed him. I killed him.
The thought loops in my mind, and I can't make it stop.
Ilya reaches for a towel and dries my hands carefully, then cups my face in his, tilting my head up so I have to look at him.
"You did what you had to do," he says, his icy eyes locked on mine. "He was going to hurt you. You survived. That's what matters."
"I killed someone." My voice sounds strange, distant, like it's coming from someone else.
"Yes. And you're alive because of it." His thumbs brush across my cheekbones, and I realize there's blood on my face too. "You're alive, Mara."
He wets a fresh washcloth and starts cleaning my face. The warm cloth moves across my skin, gentle and methodical, across my forehead, down my cheeks, around my mouth. He's careful around my eyes, tilting my head to get the right angle.
There's blood in my hair too. I can feel it, sticky and drying. He wets the cloth again and works it through the strands near my face, patient and thorough. The whole time, he's murmuring something, in Russian, I think, though I can't understand the words. The cadence is soothing, almost hypnotic. "You're safe now. I have you. You're safe," he says finally, in English.
I'm not sure I believe him. But he sounds so sure of it.
When my face is clean, he steps back and looks at me, assessing. Then he reaches for a bottle sitting on the counter that he must have brought up with us, had in his hand without my realizing it. There’s a glass next to it, and he pours a little of the clear liquid into it and hands it to me. "Drink."
I take the glass with shaking hands and bring it to my lips. It smells like pungent alcohol, and I realize it’s vodka, but I take a sip anyway. It burns going down, sharp and clean, and the sensation is somewhat grounding, reminding me that I'm real, that I'm alive.
I drain the glass and hand it back to him, coughing at the burn in my throat. I don’t move, my feet feeling as if they’re frozen in place to the warm tiles of the bathroom floor.
"I'll draw you a bath," Ilya says, his gaze fixed on my face. "You need to clean up properly."
I nod. Words seem impossible.Everythingfeels impossible.
