Except I got in the car willingly.
And I kissed him back.
And some twisted part of me is relieved to be here instead of rotting in a federal prison cell because of something my father did.
I strip off my clothes and step into the shower, turning the water as hot as I can stand. The steam fills the space, and I finally clear my mind.
I lean my head against the wall and push away thoughts of my father's betrayal. Of the children who died because of him. Of my mother and sister who must be terrified. Of the life I was building that's now ashes. Of the fact that I'm attracted to a man who kills people for a living.
Of the fact that when he said I was his, part of me wanted to believe him. Wanted to cling to it just to stay afloat.
I wash my hair with expensive shampoo that smells like sandalwood and bergamot. I scrub my skin until it's pink. I try to wash away the last four weeks of fear and the last two hours of chaos.
It doesn't work.
When I finally emerge wrapped in a towel that is so soft and fluffy it doesn’t seem real, I can hear Renat moving around in the main area of the suite. Talking to someone in rapid Russian, his voice low and commanding.
I dig through my duffel for clean clothes. The best I have is a pair of jeans and a plain black t-shirt. Nothing fancy, but clean at least.
I get dressed and take a deep breath before opening the door.
Renat is standing by the windows, phone pressed to his ear, still speaking in Russian. But when he sees me, he goes silent mid-sentence. Just stares at me like he's never seen me before.
"I'll call you back," he says in English, and hangs up without waiting for a response.
"What?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
"Nothing." But he's still staring. "You look... different."
"Clean, you mean."
"Beautiful."
The word hangs in the air between us.
"The food is here," he finally says, gesturing to the small dining table where several white takeout containers are laid out. "I didn't know what you'd like, so I ordered several things."
I walk over and my stomach growls at the smell. Pasta carbonara. Lasagna. Caesar salad. Garlic bread. It's enough food for six people.
"This is too much," I say.
"Eat what you want. Leave what you don't." He pulls out a chair for me, and when I hesitate, he adds, "Please."
I sit, and he sits across from me, watching as I pile food onto a plate. I would usually feel awkward eating in front of a stranger, but I'm too hungry to care.
The first bite of carbonara nearly makes me moan. It's been so long since I've had real food instead of diner leftovers and ramen.
"Good?" he asks.
"Amazing."
We eat in silence for a while. Or rather, I eat while he watches me with that intense focus that should make me uncomfortable but somehow doesn't.
"Can I ask you something?" I say between bites.
“Why do you believe my father will come out of hiding for me? Not my sister or my mother.”
He considers my question, but I know he will tell me the truth, whatever shape it takes.
