Chapter 9 #2
Sealed windows. A door heavy with locks that don’t so much as rattle. No give anywhere.
There must be something else. In the dark, using only moonlight, I search the rest of the room the same way he searched my home.
A flash of hope blooms within as I check behind a landscape painting on the far wall and find the kind of panel used for electrical circuits or breakers.
For a second, I just stare. Heart pounding, ribs tight.
I lift the painting off its hanger and set the frame aside. Paint clots over the screws of an old panel forgotten by time.
But it’s here. A chance.
With clumsy fingers, I wedge the knife against the first screw. Pushing. Turning. Nothing. The edge slides, useless in the soft aged screw head.
I grit my teeth and twist harder. The knife slips across my finger. As red wells up, bright and slick, I press my lips together. I won’t make a peep. Not for this.
Again.
With the heel of my hand on the flat of the blade, I lean all my weight into the turn. The screw budges a hair’s breadth.
That tiny win is everything.
Faith stirs, shy but sharp.
I can do this.
For hours, I work the panel, over and over, my hands smeared with blood, my arms shaking. The knife buckles, and the handle gives. My fingernails tear. But I don’t let up. I won’t.
Finally, the last screw falls free. Only the paint holds the panel door now. At my last desperate shove with the blunt blade, the hinges scream in protest. As I swing the flat door open, dust billows out.
Tangles of wire and cobwebs vanish into the wall. Three colors ending in copper teeth wait for a mind clever enough to make sense of them.
I, however, have no damn idea what I’m looking at.
Junction box, sure.
But what now?
Pull a cable, kill the lights, and pray for a miracle? Pray for a miracle, pull a cord, and kill myself? What kind of voltage runs through these? Or is it amps that kill?
Why didn’t I take any useful electives in high school?
It’s all just a blur of wires and panic, nothing like the fantasy of a single red wire to cut that ends the threat.
I slump against the wall.
Of course there’s no magic button or way out. Just me, this tangle of wires, and the choking despair. Thick, almost gag-inducing frustration wells up in my throat.
The warped knife trembles in my grasp. Bent, broken, and useless.
“Damn it.” I suck on my bleeding fingers.
I knew this was a long shot. But I really hoped—prayed—that this discovery would enable me to do something. Kill the lights, disengage the locks, open the windows…
Instead, I’m back at square one, with only bleeding hands to show for my efforts.
Soundlessly, the door swings inward. No electricity needed. No warning snick of the lock.
Just Kirill, his expression flat and unreadable.
No flicker of anger. Only that steady, patient stare, as if he’d scripted this moment from the start.
Like he’s been observing me and waiting for my failure.
Is the junction box a fake? A trap?
His gaze absorbs the scene.
My face, the spider- and wire-filled cavity of the panel, and my ruined hands curled around the knife’s broken hilt.
The evidence of my failure.
His eyes say, “I know exactly what you are. This is all you have left.”
While I know he’s wrong, I can’t find the strength to speak.
With unhurried steps, he walks over and pries the knife from my hand with a firm pressure that doesn’t allow for argument. Then he lifts my hand and studies my torn fingers and that welling blood that slips down my knuckles and stripes my palm, his touch impassive.
Almost clinical.
But I catch a flash of familiarity in his eyes akin to the kind you get from an ER nurse who’s seen worse.
Without a word, he closes the panel, turns, and leaves. The door clicks shut behind him.
I slide down the wall, boneless, refusing the sobs clawing up my chest. Harsh, unrelenting futility pricks at me.
No way out. No hope. Just this room, these walls, and the man with his hand on every lever.
Time crawls. As exhaustion settles in and clears my mind, my breathing slows.
This is fine.
Failure is just an opportunity to learn.
Nothing happens for no reason.
Another plan will come, another chance to test the fences.
Now that I know he’s watching me, I’ll be more careful.
Minutes pass until I sense another presence in the room.
He’s back.
This time, he carries clothes. Fresh, clean, and folded like display items. Silently, he places them on the bed.
He kneels in front of me, where I’m still curled against the wall below my failed attempt at rebellion.
He sets out an array of small packets. Antiseptic wipes. Gauze. Medical tape. While wiping the blood from my hand, he works with no wasted motion. He cleans each slice, never too rough or too gentle.
Just precise, surgical movements.
He’s…tending to my wounds? Fixing the consequences of my actions?
Why? Probably so I won’t get bloodstains on the linens. But still, I could have settled for a wad of toilet paper.
Although he smells cold up close, like steel rinsed in rain, his skin gives off a steady, unsettling heat.
After cleaning and sanitizing my hand, he grabs the gauze and begins wrapping.
“Is your tetanus vaccine up-to-date?”
The words, the first he’s spoken since this morning, come out flat and focused.
“Yeah, I think so. I got a booster a few years ago.” I wince when the gauze scrapes a deeper cut in the meat of my palm. My fingers twitch.
Kirill pauses. When he starts wrapping again, the motions are slower. More tender. “I’ll bring you some painkillers.”
I never expected this kind of reaction. I think again of the gentle but insistent way he kissed me. “It’s really fine. It doesn’t hurt that much.” Air bleeds into my voice, pitching the words higher. His hands on mine are so, so hot.
“Painkillers.” He tapes the last bandage with careful precision. “Don’t be stubborn.”
Our eyes lock.
Energy passes between us, dense and charged. Not comfort. What’s the opposite of connection?
Disconnection. Danger.
Desire.
He brushes his thumb over my palm in a barely there touch.
The touch spirals electricity up my arm and straight to my chest. My next breath is shaky.
Then he’s up and gone again.
He returns a few minutes later carrying a tray. And like a useless lump, I remain on the floor.
I can tell what he brought by the smell before he even sets the meal down on the bed.
Full American breakfast: eggs, pancakes, bacon, hash browns, coffee in a real mug, sliced fresh fruit in a crystal bowl.
And gleaming against the white linen napkin, nestled with the spoon and fork, is a steak knife.
He taps it with his thumb as he lets go of the tray. The light glints off the blade’s razor edge.
Kirill doesn’t fear me having a knife. He doesn’t need to fear anything I might do.
We both know he has all the power.
And I don’t know how…but I’m going to change that.