Page 72 of Bratva Sacrifice

She is already gone. Her bare feet pound upon the floor as she flees. I might as well be talking to myself.

But there is nowhere to run that I cannot find her. Nowhere to hide where I will not discover her. She is safe here, no matter where she goes. But she will not find the one thing she truly desires: safety from me.

Chapter Thirty Five

Alexei

It is past midnight before I go through our nightly ritual once more, sinking into the chair at the security terminal and winding back the tapes until I locate Catalina wandering through the house. I spot her leaving the library, and follow her through the corridors, sneaking through the kitchen until she comes to the butler’s pantry. It is a small room, used more like an office than a pantry, where my staff manages the household accounts.

She enters, but I do not see her leave. And as the timestamp winds down to the present time, I know she must be there still.

It is a long, silent walk toward that end of the house. The kitchen staff has largely been dismissed for the night with the exception of one cook, who is preparing stock for the nourishing soups Katya has been eating—as much as she is able—this past week. He glances up only briefly as I pass through the kitchen.

The door to the butler’s pantry is closed, the light turned off. I flick it on again, sliding my gaze across the small room. There are not too many places to hide, but the small desk at the back of the room—that seems a likely spot. I crouch down, peering beneath it.

She is tucked into the very back, pressed against the wall beneath the desk, her head resting upon her folded arms. Almost asleep, but not quite. Probably I roused her from a restless, uncomfortable sleep when I entered the room.

“Come out of there, koshechka.” I keep my voice gentle, unthreatening.

She is fighting the sedative. Her movements are slow, clumsy. But she shakes her head, curling up tighter.

“You cannot sleep here,” I tell her, hoping to prevail upon her better reason. “It’s cold and dusty.” I have to be careful about how I extract her; her bruises pain her still, and her ribs are tender. I curl my hand up into a fistful of her shirt and tug—and naturally she comes with it, with a cry of discontent.

Her arms flail as she scrabbles to free herself.

“Koshechka—”

“I hate you!”

The slurry hiss takes me aback. So does the sharp sting of metal puncturing my shoulder. She has found a letter opener somewhere on the desk, used it to fend me off. I can feel the blood beginning to seep from the wound, wetting my shirt.

The first words she has spoken to me in two weeks, and they are words of hatred.

Her whole body shudders with the enormity of what she has done, the realization that she attacked me with a weapon. The shudder turns into trembling. An abbreviated sob curdles in her throat. I feel her fury fade into a surge of fear. I know what she thinks I will do to her.

“S-sorry,” she mumbles through the sobs that choke her. “Sorry—”

“Stop, koshechka. You do not apologize for this.” It is the least of what I am due from her. A rough, pained sound forces its way out of my lungs as I sit beside her. She doesn’t protest as I pull her into my lap, but still she flinches from me. “I will never send you back there. You could stab me a thousand times, and still I will not do this to you. Never again, koshechka.” My fingers curl into the tangle of her hair, and she cringes. “Maybe you just have to see it for yourself, hmm? Maybe you have to trespass to trust.” It is a gift; a peace offering. I am inventing excuses for her actions for her. So that she does not have to choke herself upon undeserved apologies.

The coppery tang of blood is thick in the air. I already know I will need stitches.

It is impossible to tell if the sobs she smothers in the palm of her hand are fear or relief. But I adjust her in my arms and lift myself to my feet.

The cook stills as I pass through the kitchen, his eyes flitting to the blood staining my shirt, the letter opener protruding from my shoulder. I jerk my head; a silent instruction to avert his gaze. I do not want him seeing Katya like this.

“Call for the doctor,” I snap. “See that we are not disturbed otherwise.”

∞∞∞

My shirt cannot come off until the letter opener is removed, and that cannot be done until the doctor arrives. It is difficult to tell how much damage has truly been done, but I suspect not much. A flesh wound; largely a puncturing of meat and muscle. Still, it hurts like a bitch.

Katya should be sleeping, but her nerves keep her fighting the sedative I know is coursing through her veins. Still she does not believe I don’t intend to hurt her. To punish her. My heart breaks for the frightened woman she has become.

She vaults off of the bed the moment I set her down, fleeing to the farthest corner of the room, swaying on her feet. Her pallor is unmistakable, like a little ghost.

“Come, koshechka.” I pat the edge of the bed with my good hand. “Sit.” I don’t make this a fight. I don’t make it a difficult choice to obey. I turn and head for the bathroom, retrieving a hand towel to soak up the blood before it can drip elsewhere. Not everything must be a battle. She is smart. She knows I will only find her if she flees again. I glance into the mirror as I wash my hands. Katya stands there, weighing her options.

There is just one, and she knows it. She sits at the edge of the bed, lightly, prepared to run at the slightest provocation. Still she will not look me in the eye, but her gaze follows my feet, watchful and wary. I have made myself into the danger she must always be prepared to flee from.