I have no idea what I’m doing right now. Why am I offering this dangerous man a spot on my bed and a chance to pet my rabbit? My life has taken such a strange turn since the day he walked into my clinic that I don’t even recognize it anymore.
He looks at me with something that almost passes for vulnerability, then crouches and unties his boots. He slips them off, walks over to the bed, and sits carefully on the edge.
I pick Clover up and carry her over, holding her out to him. Our fingers brush when he takes her from me. My eyes flick up to find his already watching my face. Heat crawls up my neck. I step back quickly, rubbing the back of my head like that’ll somehow cover my reaction.
He lowers his gaze to Clover, handling her with careful, almost tentative movements. She sniffs at him, twitching her nose in curiosity.
My chest feels like it’s folding in on itself watching this. This terrifying Russian is sitting on my bed, looking uncertain about how to hold a small rabbit. My heart aches for him in a way I probably shouldn’t allow. He doesn’t look like someone who has real friends. The life he lives must be incredibly lonely.
He’s not trying to hide what he is. I know he’s dangerous, and I can feel it radiating from him every second I’m with him. But all I keep thinking is that maybe underneath all that violence, he’s also just alone. Just like me … Am I seriously painting asympathetic picture of someone who could be a serial killer? Apparently so.
I move across the bed slowly, watching his reaction to see if he’s okay with me getting closer. He doesn’t react or seem to care, so I join him and lean against the headboard.
“I didn’t know rabbits were so soft and could be so—how do you say … fluffy?”
I smile. “Yeah, she’s a special breed. Lionhead. They get that fluff around the ears and face. Kind of ridiculous, but they’re actually smart and make good pets.”
He nods and scratches behind her ears with gentleness. Clover flops down right on his lap, legs stretched out and eyes half-lidded. I guess she feels sorry for him too.
Both of us are pathetic since I’m imagining what it would feel like if he pulled me into his lap right now. The weight of his arms. The warmth.
Jesus, I need to stop.
“Can I ask you something?”
His gaze lifts to me, steady and waiting.
“Why didn’t you shoot me? That night you broke into the clinic?”
“I didn’t want to kill you.”
My stomach twists. “But you have killed before?”
His eyes narrow just a fraction. “Yes.”
He confirms it the way most people would when they’ve seen a movie. That casual honesty should probably terrify me more than it does. He’s killed people. I’m in my bedroom with a killer. This is the part where normal people call the police or at least leave the room. Maybe those therapy sessions weren’t working as well as I thought.
“But you won’t kill me?”
“No.”
I nod and reach out to scratch Clover’s ear, grounding myself in the familiar motion. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
“What’s your favorite movie?” I ask, trying to break the heavy tension that settled between us.
“Movie?”
“Yeah. Like what you watch on TV.”
“I know what a television is.”
“Okay, so what’s your favorite?” I grin a little at his defensive tone.
He thinks for a second, still stroking Clover’s fur. “The Goonies.”
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. “Wait, seriously? The old movie from the eighties? With the pirate ship and the kids in the cave?”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Da. It was the first movie I saw when I came to America. My mother wanted us to watch American classics while we were learning English. I didn’t understand anything they were saying.”
