I try not to think about what would happen to her if I let her loose. She’d probably be killed in a matter of minutes, just for her association to me. Worse, they may kidnap her and torture her for information. She definitely knows enough now that it would be a real threat.
I think of how sick she was just from the fear of running. She was so weak and helpless in that moment, and all I felt was pure fear. Seeing her like that unlocked something primal in me. Just the thought of her being afraid makes me want to rip someone to shreds.
I finally force myself to sit back down and look up at the ceiling, counting the tiles until my eyes start to feel heavy enough that they close on their own. I don’t know what the next few days will hold, but I know that Alina can’t leave my protection until my attacker is dead.
13
ALINA
When I wake up, my stomach is roiling again and my mouth tastes like pennies. I groan in frustration. This has been going on for three weeks now. I feel like my life is in constant danger. This can’t be healthy.
For a few seconds, I stay very still, hoping the sensation will pass if I don’t acknowledge it. The room is dim, filtered morning light slipping through the thin curtains. The air smells faintly like clean laundry and coffee, which immediately makes the nausea worse. My throat tightens and I swallow hard, pressing my lips together as my stomach clenches again.
Great. Just what I need.
I sit up slowly, bracing one hand on the mattress, taking a careful inventory of myself the way I do when something feels wrong. My head doesn’t hurt. My body isn’t sore. I don’t feel feverish or weak. I’m just gripped by relentless, unending fear. I’m queasy in a deep, persistent way that doesn’t fade when I take a steadying breath.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and pause, just in case the room starts to spin. It doesn’t. That’s something, at least.
This has been going on too long for it to just be fear, but nothing else makes sense. It could be food poisoning, I guess, but what kind of food poisoning lasts for weeks? A virus, maybe, but, again, it’s been weeks.
Unfortunately, I can’t go see a doctor right now because it isn’t safe to. We’ve been in hiding since the first night of the party. We’re now in our fourth safehouse, although thankfully we’ve just been moving to keep Andrei’s attacker on their toes. There hasn’t been another significant threat since one of Andrei’s men was shot. That’s a small relief, at least.
Maybe it’s just the highly processed food we’re forced to eat in confinement. My body isn’t used to that.
The thought is oddly comforting, even though it makes no sense. It’s not like my diet was so pure and refined before this. I mostly survived on leftovers from catering gigs.
Still, my brain clings to the idea. Food poisoning would be inconvenient, but it would be normal. I can find a way to manage it on my own without needing medical intervention. Since I have no idea how long I’m going to be stuck in this vagrant lifestyle, it would be nice to know that I can manage my nausea on my own.
I’m only so focused on the sickness because there’s literally nothing else for me to do. In addition to being the scariest few weeks of my life, it’s also been the most boring. Andrei still won’t allow me to have a phone or any device that can access the internet. He promised me he’s gotten word to my father that I’m safe, so that’s something.
My boss, on the other hand, has probably already found a new girl to replace me. That’s such a depressing thought. Still, catering jobs are a dime a dozen, and Andrei will owe me huge after dragging me to every dingy safehouse around the five boroughs and forcing me into a perpetual state of boredom and fear.
Actually, this safehouse isn’t so bad. It’s an actual house, this time, and it does have a few boardgames and books. I’ve read more in the last few weeks than I did all last year. It doesn’t take my mind off of being sick, though. Unfortunately, the more I worry about being sick, the sicker I actually feel.
I try to remember what we at for dinner last night. Chicken, I think, with frozen vegetables. Nothing strange. Nothing that should make my stomach revolt like this. I didn’t even finish the plate. My appetite has been off lately, though I’ve chalked that up to stress.
The nausea swells again, sharper this time, and I press my palm to my stomach, breathing through it when a thought suddenly occurs to me.
No.
I shake my head slightly, as if that will knock the thought loose before it can take root. My heart starts to race, suddenly and loudly in my ears. I have to run to the bathroom before I’m too weak to even stand up.
After I’ve unloaded the contents of my stomach, I slowly get up and splash some water on my face. I stare at myself in the mirror, trying to see if I look physically different. After being sick for so long, you’d think I’d be pale and skinnier. I’m not. My face is actually flushed and a little bright.
I have been under stress for weeks. My engagement imploded. I’m effectively in hiding. I’m stuck with a dangerous man whose life involves constant threats and violence. Of course my body is reacting. Bodies do weird things under pressure.
I straighten slowly and brace my hands on the bathroom counter, and my gaze drifts slowly to my own stomach in the mirror. There’s nothing there, of course. There wouldn’t be this early. It’s only been, what? Three weeks? Four? Honestly, I’ve lost count because of how mundane this life has become.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but that doesn’t stop the mental images from hitting. I remember that first night. I remember how good it felt. I remember his mouth at my throat, his breath warm against my skin. I think about how amazing I felt afterward, how weightless and satisfied.
What I don’t remember is a condom.
My stomach flips again, but this time it’s not nausea. I grip the counter harder, my pulse thudding.
I shake my head, opening my eyes and focusing on the here and now. This is not helpful. This is not productive. This is how panic starts, and I refuse to let myself unravel like this. I take a few slow breaths, counting them out until my heart rate settles.
I press my fingers to my lips, a humorless little laugh escaping me. This is insane.
