My breath becomes broken, each inhalation a battle.
Breathe in abundance. Breathe out fear.
I pick the biggest oak I can find near the center of the park, its trunk as wide as a compact car. The bark, worn smooth by the years, slides under my palms as I feel my way around in the dark. I scan what little I can see.
A stretch of grass, shivering leaves, the brittle shush of tall ferns bending to the wind. In the distance, I can hear the faint hum of traffic from another, safer world. But not a single person comes into view.
And no one will until morning.
I’m all alone.
By now, Kirill’s definitely noticed my absence. He’s hunting me.
The memory of the alley claws its way up my spine. The quick, careless violence. Bodies left sprawled on concrete like they never mattered. The bump of his car hitting them on the way out.
But then my traitorous brain flickers to the heat of his mouth on mine. The grip of his hands. The way I unraveled in his arms and melted against the wall.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Block the image out.
That wasn’t real.
Not the desire or the connection. Fear and adrenaline tripped some ancient wire and twisted my situation into a more tolerable reality. Nothing more.
Fight or flight. Those are the natural reactions to shocking events. Sometimes, I freeze.
With Kirill, I reacted differently.
That’s all.
No sense lingering on a trauma response.
Headlights sweep along the edge of the park.
Slow. Too slow.
Searching.
My breath stops dead in my throat as a quiet, expensive car glides past. A vehicle built for the kind of man who doesn’t need to announce himself.
Kirill.
He passes the entrance.
Brakes. Reverses.
I leave the tree behind and dart deeper into darkness, my lungs seizing in my chest. I scramble low to the ground on my hands, not caring how crazy I might appear. Every misstep snaps a twig or grinds a sharp stone into my palms or feet.
None of that matters.
I have to hide.
In the hush of the night, a car door opens and closes almost silently.
I drop flat and crawl for cover, zeroing in on a rhododendron bush near the fence line, its thick leaves drooping to the ground to create a dim little cave. I shove in headfirst, stirring up a messof wet, rotting leaves and earth. I taste dirt in my mouth, the sharp tang of detritus invading my nose.
I fold myself as small as I can, knees to my chest, fists pressed tight to my mouth so my breathing doesn’t give me away.
Footsteps. So muted, I’d miss them if I weren’t listening.
