Chapter 7
Alina
My first instinct is to scream. But I don’t. Nobody would hear me, and though I’ve never had an opportunity to use my self-defense training, I remember what Pavel taught me.
Grabbing the glass of water I was reaching for, I throw myself off the bed on the opposite side of where the unknown man is standing.
It must hurt when my hip and shoulder hit the floor, but I don’t feel it.
Just as I don’t feel the dizziness and the nausea that have been my constant companions of late.
The adrenaline surging through me is like an infusion of espresso directly into my veins.
My mind is crystal clear as I keep rolling, the glass clutched firmly in my hand.
Behind me, I hear the intruder utter a vile French curse before his heavy footsteps round the bed.
I spring to my feet like a pop-up toy, the adrenaline lending me an athlete’s strength. In a split second, I take in my surroundings, searching for any potential avenues of escape.
There are none.
The intruder is between me and the door, and I wouldn’t be able to open the ancient window in time. Plus, we’re on the second floor.
I either go through him, or he corners me.
He must still think I’m helpless because he lets out a low, drunk laugh and lumbers toward me. “Pretty, pretty kitty,” he croons in French. “Come to papa, pretty girl. Come on, let me pet you…”
I clench my teeth and clutch the glass harder.
I recognize that voice now. I heard it downstairs a few times as I lay here sick.
It’s the hostel owner’s son. “A pervy idiot” according to Birgit. Though she also said that he’s harmless. I guess she was wrong about that, or she’s never seen him drunk.
Either way, I’m going to give him a chance to leave of his own accord.
Pitching my voice low and hard, I channel Alexei. “Get the fuck out. Now.”
He laughs drunkenly and comes toward me. “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty…”
I can tell he expects me to back away until I’m caught against the wall, so I do the exact opposite.
I throw myself at him, launching forward with the glass clutched tightly in my outstretched hand.
It crashes against his skull, and pain stabs my palm as the thick glass breaks, puncturing my hand.
Ignoring the hot wash of blood, I hold on to the shard that remains in my grip and jump to the side as the man reels back, cursing and clutching his head.
There’s now half a meter of space between him and the path to the door. I could try to make a run for it. But if he grabs me, I won’t make it.
He’ll drag me down and use his heavy bulk to pin me.
All this runs through my brain in a nanosecond. Later, I will wonder if there was another way. I will question whether what I’m about to do was the only way to protect myself and the baby, or if it was just my Molotov blood showing its true colors.
For now, though, I simply act.
Before the man can regroup, I attack, sweeping the shard of glass in a wide, vicious arc, aiming for a disabling strike across his neck.
My aim is stunningly accurate despite the dim light.
I feel the sharp glass bite into soft tissue and hear the gurgle as he drops to his knees, clutching at his throat.
Panting, I back away as more gurgling sounds fill the room. And then… then he falls, and there’s only silence.
I keep backing away until my shoulders touch a wall. Shakily, I feel along said wall until I find the light switch by the door.
The shard of glass is still in my hand as I flip the switch to illuminate the room… and see the man lying in a pool of blood.
The man I just murdered.
My knees buckle, and the shard falls out of my numb fingers as I sink to the floor, gasping. No matter how much air I suck in, I can’t seem to get enough oxygen. My vision darkens as I struggle against the iron bands that suddenly seem to encase my lungs.
I must pass out. Or maybe I simply wish I had.
Some part of me is cognizant of the sobs trying to force their way out of my closed throat and the icy chill rendering my fingers and toes numb and useless.
That same part knows that I need to get up and go.
To leave the scene of the crime before it’s too late.
Only I can’t move. I can only stare at the man I slaughtered. A human being whose life I mercilessly ended.
I’m just like my father.
And Nikolai.
And Alexei.
Maybe it’s because I’m thinking of him, or maybe I’m simply in shock, but when something crashes into the door and it flies open, revealing my husband’s dark figure, I can’t help but think that I’ve conjured him up.
That he’s not real but a hallucination, a demonic phantasm I’ve willed into existence in my hour of need.
And maybe that’s why when he reaches for me, I fall into his embrace, sobbing and grateful to be there.
To be back where I belong.