Positioning a forearm on either side of my head, he leans so close to me, I can feel his breath on my lips. “Breathe with me,malen'kiy olen'.”
My face crumbles, and hot tears spiral across my temples. “I…can’t.”
My heart thunders in my chest, feeling like it’s going to explode. The pressure causes the pain in my ribs to increase tenfold until it feels like I’m spiraling into the very pits of hell.
He presses his mouth to mine. “Breathe.” I feel his warm air blow into me, and instinctively, I suck it into my lungs.
My eyes lock with his, and I try to focus on the dark blue ring around the much lighter blue.
With every breath he exhales, I inhale, and somehow he manages to calm me down until it no longer feels like my heart is trying to claw its way free from my chest.
“I’m… claustrophobic,” I whisper, my voice hoarse with fear. “Being buried alive is my worst fear.”
I’ve never admitted that out loud. Not even to Abbie. She just knows I’m terrified of small spaces.
When I was younger, I was playing hide and seek with my cousin, and I thought hiding in the laundry chute would be a good place. I got stuck halfway down to the laundry room, and it took them endless hours to get me out.
“You’re not buried alive. We’ll be rescued soon.” There’s so much strength in his eyes it makes me feel a little better.
Trying to gather my bearings and not freak out again, I ask, “How do you know?”
“I have people who should already know what happened, and they know we’re here. They’ll come for us.”
His accent is thicker, and I latch onto it. “Are you Russian?”
He nods, his attention on the concrete around us.
“Traveling?” I ask as if now is the time to get to know him. But at least it’s giving me something else to focus on.
“You could say so.” His eyes lock on mine again, and the bubbling chaos in my chest simmers down a little. “I’m going to get up so I can check your wounds.”
I nod, but still, my fingers tighten on his jacket until he’s forced to wrap his hand over mine so he can pull them away from his clothing.
“I’m right here,” he reassures me as he pushes himself up to his hands and knees. Moving onto his haunches, he glances around us, taking in the small space.
My eyes flit from one broken concrete block to the other, then I see a piece of silver fabric hanging from a busted steel rod.
His eyes drop to my body, starting at my bare feet. I have no idea where myJimmy Chooheels are.
When his gaze stops on my side, he leans down, his fingers brushing over my icy skin.
I move my hand to press on the floor so I can push myself up, but he snaps, “Don’t move.”
Before I can ask why, he shrugs out of his jacket, and not bothering with the buttons of his dress shirt, he rips his shirt open, buttons flying all over the place.
There’s an intricate tattoo on his left arm. The wings of an eagle are inked over his shoulder, then snakes make their way down his bicep to frame a cross with praying hands. His right arm is covered in stars. Some have Russian writing in them, but most are empty.
As hot as his tattoos and bare chest look, the severity of the moment hits me hard. It feels like lead is filling my veins.
He rips the sleeves off his shirt, and folding the remaining fabric, he presses it to my side, using the sleeves to tie it around my waist.
“How…” I swallow hard on the question. “How bad is it?”
He makes sure the makeshift bandage is tight, then looks me dead in the eyes and lies, “It’s not bad at all.”
“You’re lying,” I whisper, my throat closing up with panic.
Leaning closer, his right hand brushes over my cheek. The touch almost feels loving.