Kirill?
I flip over to see if he’s alert now too.
He remains in the chair, his hunched, massive frame tensed up and almost shaking. Head down, hands in his lap. His clenched fists tremble, the knuckles white. He’s asleep.
A ragged half-growl, half-choked-off scream escapes his mouth.
I don’t move.
In the moonlight, the sweat on his skin glistens. The mask has vanished, all the threat stripped away. He could almost be someone else, here in the dark, trapped in his own prison.
The sound tears from his lips, raw and halting. “Kholodno.”
I don’t know the language, but I know the pain behind the word.
Before my senses can catch up, I’m slipping from beneath the covers. The floor bites cold against my bare feet, the silence stretching as I move.
I step softly, careful not to wake him. Another word spills out between his lips. So faint I wouldn’t have heard him if I weren’t already halfway across the room.
“Mama…”
Anyone else in my situation would probably prefer to watch Kirill suffer, might even savor the way he’s come undone in the middle of his nightmare.
But I only feel a sharp ache at the sight of him.
Nobody should hurt like that.
Maybe it’s the universe punishing him for keeping me here.
I did warn him about karma.
Regardless…no one deserves this. And I can’t just sit back and watch.
I kneel beside the chair, close enough to see the frantic flutter of his eyelids, each muscle rigid and straining.
Wherever he is, it’s worse than here. And he can’t get out.
My fingers skim his forearm, barely touching. His skin, fever wild and sharp, burns under my hand. Every fiber in him tenses and shudders. The reaction is too human. Too vulnerable.
“Kirill.” I trail my fingers down his arm and over the hard line of muscle, stopping where his fist knots white on his thigh. The tendons stand out, the cords stretched to the breaking point. “It’s okay.”
His other hand moves.
Fingers, vise-tight and unyielding, clamp around my throat.
I go completely still, my breath trapped in my chest, my pulse hammering against his palm.
My gaze snaps up to his face.
He stares at me with eyes as pale and cold as winter stars, but he’s not seeing me. Not really. Whatever haunts him still has its claws embedded, turning his stare wild and sightless.
For a heartbeat, we’re suspended. Kirill’s hand encircles my throat, my life in his grip, both of us caught in a moment between nightmare and waking.
Kirill
Cold.
Ice in my veins. Snow scorches my skin. Wind cuts through inadequate clothing.
