Page 5 of Ruined By Sin

She's small, with dark hair that's matted on one side from the blood, wearing a blouse that's torn at the collar. And there's debris on her sleeves, whether from the mess she lived through or Morin's trunk. Her hands are scratched up like she fought someone and it appears she's been crying, red-rimmed eyes and a puffy, red nose. She wasn't supposed to be part of this. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I have no fucking clue what to do with her, but turning her loose isn't an option right away. I can't have her running straight to the police to tell them what she's seen, if she's seen anything, and I can't have her ratting Morin out. I might not like what he's done, but I owe him my life. I have to protect him.

The only option I have is to make her comfortable and take time to find out what she knows and who she is before we decide what to do, and I'm going to have to bring Roman in on this. So I send my maid a message. She's been sleeping for hours already, but I know she will help me with this. She's never complained about anything I've asked her to do.

Timur: 12:49AM: Sonya, I'd like your help in the living room, please.

I hit send and drag a chair over from the dining table and sit down next to the couch. Close enough that she'll see me when she wakes up, far enough that she won't feel cornered. I rest my elbows on my knees and wait.

Sonya appears a minute later with tired eyes and glances at the woman, still struggling to pull herself out of her stupor. "Sir?"

"Sonya, please get me some water and tissues. Maybe a bottle of pain medication for our friend." Her eyes shift toward the woman and an expression of concern etches her face.

"Of course, sir," she says, then rushes off to get what I need. I'd have gotten it myself, but with Morin doing heavier tasks, I don't have my right-hand man to wait on me or watch a witness.

When Sonya comes back, setting a tray down with everything on it that I requested, plus a few alcohol wipes, she frowns. "Is everything okay?" she asks, folding her hands in front of herself. She's a mothering type, but some of this stuff is beyond what she should be exposed to.

"It's handled," I tell her. "Thank you."

She nods and leaves without a word. Sonya's seen a lot of things in this house, but she trusts me. We run a clean organization, or as clean as we can manage. I know I'll have her discretion.

When the woman's eyes finally open, she doesn't scream or bolt the way I expect. But her body stiffens and she looks around in fright. She looks disoriented and confused and really scared.

"You're safe," I say. It's the only thing I can think to say that isn't a lie. Right now, she's as safe as she would be anywhere else. Ihave no intention of hurting her or using her in such a crude way like Morin suggested. He should've just kept this to himself and not involved me. Now I have to tell Roman what he's done, which will only shed doubt on this mission to remove Mirov and his allies.

She pushes herself up slowly, one hand bracing on the couch cushion while the other goes to her temple. When her fingers come away with blood on them, she stares at it for a second and then looks at me again.

"Where am I?"

"My home. You're not going to be hurt here." She has a pleasant voice when she speaks, though she's shy and a bit quiet. And Morin isn’t wrong. She's beautiful, from her pouty lips to her full, round, perfectly symmetrical face.

"The man who brought me said I was a gift." She winces as she touches her face again, then sucks in a breath through her teeth. I hand her one of the alcohol wipes, which she tears open and dabs at the cut. It's deep, but I don’t think it needs stitches.

"He was wrong to say that. And wrong to bring you here."

She studies my face like she's trying to figure out whether I'm lying. I don't blame her. I wouldn't believe me, either. An hour ago, she probably thought she was living her best life, and now she has no clue where she's at or who I am.

"I'm Kira," she says after a moment, and I don't know why that catches me off guard. Maybe because I expected hysteria and instead, she's introducing herself. Most women would be freaking out, but she's holding herself together cautiously.

"Timur."

I reach forward and slide the glass of water toward her along with the tissues. She lays the soiled alcohol wipe down and dabs her cut with a tissue instead. Then she picks up the water and takes a small sip, testing it like she's not sure she trusts it.

"I don't want water," she says. She sets the glass down and meets my eyes. "Do you have vodka?" When her eyebrows pull together in the center, I chuckle. Either she's been through this before or she is starting to let some of that fear go.

"Of course..." I stand and walk over to the island that separates my kitchen from my living room and pick up the bottle Morin left sitting there. When I come back, I take the water glass and dump the water into my potted plant and pour a few fingers of the alcohol into the glass instead. She accepts it greedily, gulping it down.

She coughs, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as she reaches for the pain medication. Her hands fumble with the bottle as she tries to wrestle a few pills out, but she gives up. So I open it and take two out, then place them in her palm as she says, "I want to go home."

I sit back down and press my palms together between my knees. This is the part where everything gets complicated, and I hate it. I hate that Morin put me in this position and I hate that there's no clean way out of it.

"I understand that," I tell her. "And I wish I could make that happen right now."

"But you can't?"

"Not yet." There's no real way for me to explain to her why the man who broke the law kidnapping her deserves better treatment than her. And I'm not about to grill her for answersthis time of night after what she's been through. Who knows what hell she saw tonight. She probably watched people she loves being murdered.

Her forehead crinkles and she asks, "Why?"