No.
No, I kept digging. I kept following the ghosts of an unchangeable past. And I almost paid the price for it.
Whatever happens next, it’s my fault.
Just like how this all started.
Guilt twists in my belly, and I close my eyes, choosing to dwell on both Slava’s scent overlaid with salt and sweat and the metallic tang of adrenaline, and the comforting warmth from his body that’s now pouring into mine like a drug.
Together, they slowly bring me back to life, and pull me—inch by agonizing inch—from the abyss that I had been so happily staring at and so willingly about to jump into.
Don Leo’s casual assumption that my body was his to use has brought a memory swimming to the surface. One that I’ve fought for too long to suppress for eight long years.
One that set all of us on this path from the very get go. His laugh echoes so loudly that I can barely hear anything else.
Because it’s something I’ve heard before.
Not exactly like this. Not in the same way. But close enough that my nervous system can’t tell the difference. Close enough that I’m right back there eight years ago in that hotel room, waiting for someone to save me?—
No.
I slam the door to that memory closed, bolt it shut, and drag a metaphorical dresser in front of it to keep the monstrous memory at bay.
Just in time for the car to pull up to Slava’s building, and everything seems to happen in fragments.
The elevator hurtles its way up, shifting gravity in that familiar way I’ve come to expect. The cold metal walls part, and warm hands guide me inside. Ludmilla’s face flashes a quick surprise when we walk in before Slava says something in Russian.
Then, she nods, bows, and leaves us alone as Slava guides me to his bedroom. He presses his thumb against the lock pad, and a moment later, the door unlatches.
Guilt twists my heart again. But there’s no time for me to dwell on it as he leads me inside.
Like everything else in Slava Romanov’s life—his penthouse, his ego, and the crater his existence has blown through my carefully constructed revenge—his bedroom is enormous.
But I’m not really processing any of it. I’m still somewhere underwater.
“Bella.”
His voice brings me back to reality.
I blink and realize that I’m standing in Slava’s bathroom. He’s in front of me, one hand on my shoulder, and I realize I’ve been staring at nothing for God knows how long. His eyes scan my face with unmistakable concern.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
“You’re in shock.”
“I’mfine,” I repeat, a little louder than before.
Why? Why am I still so stubborn? Why can’t I accept this tiny sliver of kindness he’s willing to show me, this tiny bit of humanity and truce that we’ve silently agreed upon?
I rub the pad of my thumb, and a list of names silently crosses my mind.You know why.
“You’re not fine,” he says it without judgment or pity. “You nearly drowned. You’re hypothermic. And you’re doing that thing where you pretend nothing’s wrong because you think admitting weakness will kill you.”
I can’t argue with the truth.
He reaches into the shower with multiple showerheads and a built-in bench, and turns the water on.
Steam begins to fill the room.
