My stomach is a pit of ice and churning acid, my fingers numb and clumsy as I stuff my old clothes into my suitcase. Alina is on my bed, passed out, the drugs and the sleepless night having finally taken their toll.
I donât know where Iâm going or what Iâm doing; I just know I have to leave. Right now. Before Nikolai wakes up. Truth or lies, reality or madness, I stand no chance of sorting it all out while Iâm here, under his roof and at his mercy, with that overpowering chemistry simmering between us, dragging me deeper under his lethal spell.
Iâm not sure what Iâd thought Iâd hear from Alina. An admission that theyâre mafia, after all? And maybe they are. At this point, nothing would surprise me. From the beginning, my instincts have been warning me about Nikolai, and I shouldâve heeded them.
I shouldâve listened to that voice inside my head.
Youâre not leaving.
Yesterday, his fervently uttered statement seemed romantic, if somewhat autocratic, his possessiveness a turn-on rather than reason for alarm. But now, with Alinaâs revelations ringing in my ears and my no-longer-lost keys jabbing my leg through the pocket of my jeans, I canât help but view his words in a different, infinitely more sinister light.
Was he never going to return the keys to me?
Have I been a de facto prisoner all along?
Frantically, I throw in the last of my clothes and zip the suitcase, then slip on my old sneakers and grab the envelope with the cash from the nightstand, stuffing it into my pocket. My heart is pounding so hard Iâm sick from it, or maybe Iâm just plain heartsick.
I just⦠didnât want you to end up like her.
I still have no idea to whom Alina was referring; after the slicing-open bit, she became incoherent, sobbing until she passed out from exhaustionâand no wonder. It sounds as if sheâs witnessed Nikolai murdering their father, and maybe this mysterious âherâ as well. An ex-girlfriend of his? Or worse, their mother? Or was the âhe killed herâ part referring to their father, whoâs allegedly also a monster?
I strain my memory to recall any mention of how Nikolai and Alinaâs parents died, but there was nothing in the Russian articles I came across. Nikolai did react strongly when I asked about his parents that one time, but I attributed it to grief. But what if thereâs more to it? What if thereâs guilt and anger, the self-loathing of a man whoâs done the unforgivable, committed the most heinous of crimes?
I donât know if I believe it of Nikolai. I donât want to believe it. Despite the darkness Iâve sensed in him, despite his savage hunger for me, I felt safe in his embrace last night. His roughness had been tempered with tenderness, his strength carefully leashed. And the way he cared for me afterward, washing me, feeding me, holding me so tenderly â¦
Is a monster capable of caring?
Can a psychopath fake emotion so well?
Maybe nothing Alina said is true. Maybe itâs a ploy to make me leave, to break up a relationship sheâs disapproved of from the beginning. Maybe if I talk to Nikolai, heâll explain everything, prove to me that Alina is simply ill, out of her mind with all those drugs.
Itâs a tempting thought, so tempting that as Iâm stepping out of my room, I stop and glance longingly down the hallway, where the door to Nikolaiâs bedroom is still firmly shut. I want to trust him so badly, and under different circumstances, I would. If we were a regular couple hooking up in an apartment in a city, I would march down that hallway and demand an explanation, hear his side of the story before deciding what to do. But I canât take that risk, not when Iâm so completely in his power on this remote, highly secure estate.
Nobody knows Iâm here.
Nobody will know or care if I disappear for good.
The only reasonable thing to do is to go now, to leave and assess the situation from a distance. Once Iâm in a motel somewhere, I can reach out to Nikolai, let him know what happened and why I left. We can talk it out over email or on the phone, and I can do some more online digging, see if I can find out anything about his parentsâ deaths.
This doesnât have to be forever, just for now.
Just until I know the truth.
Still, my heart feels agonizingly heavy as I carry my suitcase down the stairs and to the garage entrance in the back. Not only will I miss Slava, but the mere possibility that I might never see Nikolai again fills me with cold, hollow dread. So does the knowledge that Iâm going out there, where my momâs killers are still hunting me. But Iâve evaded them before, and I have to believe that Iâll be able to do so againâespecially with all that cash on hand. When I fled Boston, all I had were a couple of twenties in my wallet, plus the five hundred I withdrew from an ATM before ditching my debit card along with everything else that could be tracked.
Itâs going to be fine.
Iâll make it.
I have to believe that.
Swallowing the growing knot in my throat, I approach my car and throw my suitcase into the trunk. Then I press the button to open the garage door and watch it lift silently. No slow, noisy mechanisms here, thank God. As quietly as I can, I start the car and back out of the garage, then steer around the house to the driveway.
It takes everything I have to drive down the mountain calmly, sedately, like Iâm in no rush. If the guards are watching the road, I canât have them getting suspicious. As is, icy sweat trickles down my back, and my knuckles whiten on the steering wheel as I pull up to the tall metal gate.
What if Nikolai gave them instructions not to let me out?
What if Iâm a prisoner here for real?
But the gate slides apart at my approach, and nobody stops me as I drive through. Shaking with relief, I maintain my slow, steady speed for another thirty seconds or so, until Iâm out of view, and then I floor the gas, speeding away from the safe haven that just might be the devilâs lair.
From the man I yearn for with every fiber of my heart.