I’ve sold many of my paintings, others are exhibited all over the world, but those I hold most dear, the private works, and those that I can’t bear parting with, are in my workshop. I can’t dump water on them and lose the collection I’ve built.
My feet carry me across the kitchen, through the living room, up the flight of stairs, and once I’m in, the dense smoke hits me like a fist to the throat. It claws its way into my lungs until every breath feels like a chore. I don’t look away from the devastation though, I refuse to. The swirling patterns of flames suggest the fuckers spilled something combustible. Fire claws greedily up the walls, as if it recognizes my paintings are worth devouring.
I wish I could have left those bastards alive so they could see for themselves how it feelsto burn.
I should use a mask, or keep my head low, but there’s no time for such precautions. Frantic, I grab the beautiful blue robe I portrayed Victor in and start pounding it against the fire even when the stinging in my eyes makes everything blur.
The world spins—I don’t know if it’s from the heat and stress—or if the fumes are already affecting me, but I won’t give up. I have a sketchbook with pictures of my mother. If I can savethatat least—
My foot tangles in the thick fabric, and suddenly I’m losing balance. I try grabbing the column, but my fingers slide right off, and I collide with a large canvas. As I grab onto it, still seeking a way to stay upright, I find myself looking into my own face, surrounded by a halo of flames, and then...
Pain.
Am I the one who’s screaming?
My hand must have punched through the unfinished painting, because we’re tangled together, and every movement hurts. The heat presses against my skin singeing the fine hairs on my arms, crawling over my face until my sweat feels like it’s boiling.
There is no way around it. It’s either me or my paintings.
When I pry my eyes open to see the security screen, the sight of my own hand comes as a shock. It’s swollen, red, with bits of scalded flesh, but that’s all secondary to survival.
I tap the screen half-blindly, and a groan escapes my lips when the sprinklers don’t immediately activate. I’m confused, unsure where the exit is, but I must have finally done something right, because the cold water hits me at last. It’s like needles, shocking and brutal, tearing a hoarse sound out of me as my scorched skin meets icydroplets. My body convulses in relief and agony both when I get drenched.
The pain is so overpowering I drift off, panting and half-lucid
Something squeaks, pulling me out of my stupor. Then, tiny whiskers tickle my swelling forearm, and I open my eyes to face Ratimir. He leaps onto my leg to escape the water flooding my studio.
What is he doing here? Did the fire damage the walkways I made for him? Or was it the earlier explosion that affected his pipes?
But it’s not just him and me anymore. Victor’s still trapped in the kitchen island hideout, and he needs to be released. But then… what if he leaves?
The front door is gone and I am too weak to stop him from running.
He might be my downfall.
But I can’t move. Everything hurts. I need help before I pass out again.
It shouldn’t be such a tough choice. This is the potentially-poisoned food all over again. But if I was starving, would I really not touch food someone else prepared for me?
I would.
So this is it. I’ll be finding out if given the freedom to leave his cage, Victor abandons me, or acts against his best interest and stays.
I deactivate all the security systems, disarming traps and unlocking doors.
“Ratimir,” I whisper, struggling to stay awake. “Go to Victor.”
Chapter 19
Victor
Timestretcheswithoutmercyin the darkness of my hideout. I guess Seva’s paranoia has rubbed off on me, because I’m not sure anymore if I’m safe or trapped. The space isn’t sound-insulated, so I got to hear several screams and gunshots, but all of them came from afar. There were no more explosions, yet all I can think of is that I don’t know if Seva’s safe.
My hands are sweaty, and at times it feels like I’m running out of air, but the hiding space is no coffin. The tiny door behind which Seva locked me has narrow gaps at the top and bottom.
I trust that Seva knows what he’s doing, that the house is prepared to deal with situations exactly like this one, but I can’t bear the thought of Seva getting hurt in any way.
I’ve fallen for him so hard and fast I question my sanity.
