Page 29 of Ruined By Sin

Who the fuck am I kidding?

My cheeks burn as I realize I'm letting myself daydream about a life with him when it's not even possible. The instant he finds out I'm not a Belova, I'm dead.

A lump forms in my throat as I flick a glance at Dryden's phone, mounted on his hip on a belt clip. He carries it on him every day, but today's the first time I've really considered what it would mean to have it in my hands for five minutes. And it would be so easy to lift it off him for a minute, make a quick call.

No one in my family knows I'm alive. After that night, who knows what they think? They could've even had a funeral for me or something and the thought of my father standing over an empty grave makes my chest hurt so badly, I have to look away from the phone and stare at my notepad until it passes. I don't want Dryden to see me crying and ask what's wrong.

When the urge to cry passes, I write a few lines of poetry. Something about birds and fences that isn't very good but keeps my hands busy and my babysitter thinking I'm occupied. Dryden's doing paperwork today. It looks like some kind of log or report that Timur probably asked him to fill out. He's got a clipboard balanced on his knee and he's writing meticulously, so focused, he probably isn't paying attention to me at all.

He's distracted, enough that his attention is split between the clipboard and me. Usually, he's not like this for more than a few minutes, but he's usually on his phone too, not doing paperwork. His eyes flick up every thirty seconds or so to check on me, but between those checks, he's focused on whatever he's writing.

The phone is right there. No more than a foot from his hand, clipped to his belt, facing outward. If I were standing next to him and he turned his body the right way, I could lift it off the clip with two fingers. The holster is open-top. There's no snap, no strap, nothing holding it in place except gravity and the tension of the clip itself.

I write another line of poetry and my hand is shaking slightly. I press the pencil harder into the paper to steady it. If he sees me eyeing it too closely, he'll get suspicious and move it, so I have to control myself and steal glances at it. But a plan is forming in my mind.

Sonya comes through the back door with a tray laden with fresh cups of coffee and sets one beside me and one beside Dryden. "Anything else, dear?" He doesn't even look up at all this time. It's like he knows she's here so he lets her watch me for a second while he really focuses.

"Actually, yes." I set the notepad down and shift in my chair. "Can I use the bathroom?" My heart starts hammering, making me feel nervous and flighty. I could really do this—steal his phone, sneak into the bathroom, and call my uncle. He could be here in a matter of twenty minutes to rescue me and I could go home.

Dryden looks up from his clipboard. His eyes move from me to Sonya and back, and I see how bored he looks. He doesn't like letting me out of his sight, even for a few minutes. Every time I leave the patio or move to a different room, he has to follow me or trust that the house is locked down tight enough. But this time, his work and laziness win out.

"Sonya, go with her," he says, and it sends my heart into a tailspin. I'm fluttery and flustered as his eyes turn back to hiswork, and one hundred percent of me knows if I get caught, Timur will be so upset. But I have to try it.

"Of course." Sonya smiles at me and gestures toward the door, then she starts off in that direction with her back to me.

I stand on wobbly legs and pick up my notepad and take a step toward the door but pause. I look down at my pencil and flick a glance at him, still consumed with his work, then drag my hand on the table as I walk. The motion causes the pencil to roll from the table and fall to the patio paver stones where it rolls under Dryden's chair.

"Sorry," I mutter, bending to pick it up. My right hand closes around the pencil. My left hand, hidden by my body and the angle of the chair, finds the phone on his hip.

The clip releases easier than I expected. The phone slides free and I curl my fingers around it, pulling it against my thigh as I straighten up. I tuck it into the pocket of my pants in one motion, pressing it flat against my leg so it doesn't bulge, and then I’m moving, praying it doesn't ring.

My heart is beating so hard, I can hear it in my ears. I don't look at Dryden. I just hold the pencil up like that's all I went down there for and follow Sonya through the back door into the house.

The bathroom is down the hall from the kitchen where Sonya busies herself. At first glance, it looks like she's baking bread, but I am too nervous to care as I slip into the bathroom and lock the door.

My hands are trembling as I pull the phone out of my pocket and tap the screen. The phone wakes on command, and I open the dialer and punch in my father's number. It's the only number I have memorized besides my sister's, drilled into me since I wasa child because my father is old-fashioned and believes everyone should know their family's numbers by heart.

It rings twice. Three times. Four...

He's not answering because he doesn't know this number, and I whimper and plead silently for him to not do this to me right now. I've seen him ignore calls before, and this is not a time for him to be anti-social. When it rings through, I dial again and again.

Finally, on the fourth call, he answers.

"Hello?" His voice is rough, like he's emotional and depressed. It makes my chest ache, but I am so close to being home now.

"Dad," I whisper, afraid Sonya can hear me talking.

I hear him gasp and then, "Kira? Kira, is that you? Oh, my God. Oh, my God, Kira?—"

"Dad, I'm okay. I'm alive. I'm safe." The words tumble out fast because I can hear him unraveling and I need to hold him together. "Listen to me. I don't have much time. I'm okay. I'm not hurt, but I don't know where I am."

"We thought you were dead. We thought—" His voice cracks, and I hear him pull the phone away from his face. There's muffled talking, another voice in the background, and then shuffling.

"Kira." It's Uncle Victor and he doesn't sound happy. I want my father, but I know why he's on this line. If Dad is falling apart, Victor is the one who will take charge and get me home safely. "Where are you?" He sounds angry, and rightly so. It's been three weeks and no one's heard from me, not a ransom or anything because I lied and told Timur I am a Belova.

"I'm at a man's house. His name is Timur Kuzin. He's been keeping me here since the night of the attack. I haven't been harmed. He thinks I'm someone else."

There's a pause on the line and when he responds, he sounds confused. "Who does he think you are?"