And that was when everything came rushing back to me.
My eyes snapped open of their own accord, and I pushed myself up in bed. But the movement was so fast that I had to place a hand over my mouth, fearing any contents that were in my stomach would come out.
“I wouldn’t move. You’re going to end up getting sicker than you are.”
For a split second I froze, looking around the room for the source of the deep voice. It was still dark, so I couldn’t have been out for too long. Unless it was the next night? Oh, God, where was I? What was he going to do to me? He had killed Igor, and that image played through my head over and over again.
I saw him sitting in a chair in the corner of the room. And he looked so at ease, as if he hadn’t broken into my home, killed a man in front of me, drugged me, and then taken me to… wherever I was right now.
“I’d turn on the light, but I know your head is probably pounding and the light is only going to hurt more.”
He slowly rose from the chair and even in the darkened room, I could see the muscles rippling across his body from the movement. Gone was the hoodie and he now wore a dark T-shirt that was form-fitted to his very broad shoulders and defined chest.
He still wore the dark cargo pants and combat boots, and I didn’t know why seeing him this way made him appear even more menacing than before.
I wasn’t sure if he could see my expression or hear my rapid breathing, but a second later he walked over to the wall and turned on the light switch.
Muted yellow light filled the room. I hissed as I closed my eyes and lifted my hand, shielding them from the harsh glow. The pounding was intense, the nausea rising up even more.
“I told you.” There was no judgment or accusation in his voice. He kept it pitched low, almost… gentle in his tenor. “Do you want me to turn it back off?”
I was nodding before I could stop myself. A second later the room was submerged in darkness once more.
The headache didn’t immediately go away, but after a few seconds the pounding subsided and I was able to exhale in a semblance of relief and dropped my hand to my lap.
He hadn’t moved from the place by the wall, just watched me so intently that I actually reached for the comforter and pulled it up to my chest, as if it were a shield that could block me from his prying gaze.
For long seconds we didn’t speak, with me just sitting on the bed, unable to move away from his predatory gaze.
“You should drink that water and take the pain reliever. Waiting is only gonna make it feel worse.”
I glanced over at the bedside table to see a ibuprofen and a bottle of water. I looked over at him but didn’t reach for it, and when he exhaled in frustration, I wanted to tell him to fuck off.
“I told you I wasn’t going to hurt you. If I wanted to, I could’ve done so ten times over by now.”
“Pretty sure drugging me is in the very definition of hurting someone.”
He lifted a hand and ran it over the back of his hair, the dark strands too short for the movement to make them mussed.
“That’s the least fucked-up thing I’ve ever done, sweetheart.”
I felt my fear start to take a back seat as annoyance took hold. “Don’t call me that.”
The corner of his mouth kicked up ever so slightly, but he caught himself almost immediately, that apathetic expression falling right back in place like a veil of stoic disinterest.
“What should I call you then? Anastasia? Little dancer? Milaya moyna?”
My heart lurched in my chest, my mouth drying, and my throat tightened. I hadn’t heard that endearment in so long that I felt tears tingle the back of my eyes. It also had this strange nagging prick at my brain, pulling at memories with Kostya.
No, those innocent, precious memories would forever stay locked in a vault deep within me where no one could touch them.
“Who are you?” I whispered. I saw something else flicker across his face before he masked it quickly.
“Razoreniye.”
I felt confusion fill me. “Ruin? You’re called Ruin?” I shook my head.
He laughed but it sounded so dead… like he probably was inside. “That’s what I am. Ruined, sweetheart.” He held his arms out, his biceps flexing, the veins in his forearms pulsing under his tattooed skin.
I could see scars littering his bare, inked skin, wondering what his story was, how he was so damaged, but it wasn’t just on the outside. I could see how cold he was on the inside just by staring into his eyes.