I somehow managed to pry one eye open and was met with a blinding light.
Exactly like when I woke up in that concrete room surrounded by Mikhail’s soldiers.
Was I still there?
Snippets of time flashed before my eyes.
Waking up tied to a chair. The photos from the security footage. Telling Mikhail his uncle was responsible for his father’s death. The car ride. The low hum of the engine. Mikhail’s quiet and controlled voice as he shared what he could about his uncle’s arrangement with Victor. Stumbling into my house. Ariana’s fury when she saw me.
Her hands on me as she cleaned me up.
God, she was so damn angry with me.
And I loved every second of it.
At least I thought she was angry with me.
Or did I imagine all of that as a way to cope with everything? Was I still in that dank, dark room about to be subjected to yet another round of beatings?
But this room didn’t stink of mildew and rust. It smelled like ocean breeze, fresh linen, and something unique. Something that always reminded me of Ariana.
I blinked slowly, attempting to focus through my blurred vision.
I wasn’t strapped to a metal chair like I feared.
Instead, I lay on a couch, a blanket draped over me. The ceiling above me wasn’t littered with chains and exposed pipes. It was high and white, allowing the natural sunlight to pour in.
I turned my head, and the movement sent a spike of pain through my skull, but I ignored it.
Ariana sat curled in the armchair across from me, her bare feet tucked beneath her. Sunlight spilled over her hair, making her look like an angel. Her attention was focused on the book in her hands, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration.
It reminded me of those early days up in Maine. How she stayed with me as I recovered from my injuries, even when she had no reason to trust me. How I would watch her read for hours because, for those few moments, she seemed to lower her guard, and I was convinced I saw the real Ariana.
“Whatcha reading?” I asked, my voice coming out rough.
She didn’t even look up. Simply turned the page in her book. “How to kill your stubborn spouse and get away with it.”
A laugh escaped before I could stop it, a throbbing returning to my ribs. “You don’t need to read a book. Blake is an expert in that field.”
“I’ll keep that in mind for the future.”
“I assume you’re still mad at me about last night.”
“I want to be.”
“But you’re not?”
On a long sigh, she closed the book and set aside the worn copy of a Carl Hiaasen novel before rising gracefully to her feet. She crossed toward me and sank down on the floor beside the couch. Her touch was warm as her fingers brushed my hair out of my face, mindful of the bandage at my temple. I covered her hand with mine, briefly closing my eyes as I relished in the feel of her soft skin.
“You made me laugh,” she said quietly. “It’s hard to be mad at someone who keeps doing that, even when you irritate me.”
“That’s…disappointing.”
She raised a brow. “You want me to still be angry with you?”
“Like I told you last night. It could make for some really good angry sex.”
“And like I told you last night,” she began, slowly curving toward me, her mouth hovering over mine.
