26. Arkadiy
26
ARKADIY
I don’t know how long we stay sitting on the hard tiled elevator floor before Mara locks her glistening eyes with mine. My guess is an hour, but my ass is convinced it is closer to five.
“Will you take me home? P-Please.”
I nod without thinking. “Of course.”
When I stand, I take her with me. It feels natural to have her in my arms. Right. But as much as I don’t want to let her go, it has to be her choice.
“Can you walk, or do you want me to carry you?”
Mara weighs up her options before saying, “I can w-walk.”
The light above our heads bounces off her cheeks when I carefully place her on her feet. Astonishingly, they’re without a single tearstain.
Her strength is proven tenfold when she exits the elevator at the underground parking level with only the faintest tremble to her thighs. They could have more to do with bearing weight on her ankle than the ordeal she just went through, but I’m not one hundred percent confident in my assumption yet, so I will keep my opinion to myself.
I dip my chin in gratitude to Rafael when he hands me Mara’s purse and my cell phone before he sinks into the shadows of an industrial heating unit. He kept the parking lot locked down to ensure Mara is rewarded with the privacy she deserves.
“Corner of Prescott and Twenty-Second Street,” I instruct Darius after assisting Mara into the back of my town car and sliding in behind her, my tone pretending I’ve not directed him to that same address each evening for the past three weeks.
Darius’s concern for Mara reflects in his eyes when he locks them with mine in the rearview mirror before he dips his chin. I issue him the same grateful response I gave Rafael before sliding up the privacy partition.
Just because Mara isn’t going off the rails like you’d expect a victim of a crime to react doesn’t mean she is out of the woods yet.
Her internal battle is the one that needs the most attention.
I take a breath, praying she won’t pull away from me, before I curl my hand over her balled one on the seat between us.
She doesn’t pull away. She glances down at my hand, smiles softly, and then returns her eyes to the window.
Our trip to her apartment is done in silence. I won’t lie. The quiet is killing me. It has me in such turmoil that I forget Mara isn’t mine to do with as I like when we arrive at her building. Not thinking, I pull her into my arms and exit the vehicle without seeking permission.
The knot in my stomach that I’m making unforgivable mistakes loosens when Mara’s moves mimic the ones Tillie made when I removed her from the cab. She nuzzles into my chest and sucks in my cologne as if it is as addictive as her shampoo.
I don’t check if the elevator is functioning. I head straight for the stairwell, bypassing the apartment Rafael and Darius cleared out the weekend Darius’s search yielded unfavorable results for Mara’s building supervisor.
After entering Mara’s apartment like the space is mine as much as it is hers, we go through the motions I imagine every victim undertakes when they arrive home after a crime. We deadbolt all accessible entry points, triple-check the window latches, and switch on almost every light.
Then we head to the bathroom.
Desecration in any form stinks. It clogs your pores and makes you feel dirty, so it is only natural to want to get clean as soon as possible after a violation.
That was another reason I was showering when I felt an incessant need to get to Mara.
Thank fuck I listened to my intuition.
Who knows what that sick fuck would have done to her if I hadn’t.
Though I’d give anything to stay, I issue Mara the privacy she deserves.
“I’ll wait for you in the kitchen.”
I’m partway out of the bathroom when she whispers my name.
She waits for our eyes to meet before saying, “Th-thank you.”
I don’t know why she is thanking me. Paarth was at the bottom of the Chrysler’s employee pyramid, but if he weren’t angry at me for looking deeper into his personal life, he wouldn’t have had a bone to pick with Mara.
I didn’t introduce him to her life, but I am the reason he forced her to relive her nightmares.
That means I am not the man she should be thanking. But once a coward, always a coward.
I dip my chin before reiterating that I’ll wait for her in the kitchen.
I go through the same motions there as I did anytime screams ripped through my mother’s bedroom. I put the kettle on the stovetop and fetch two mugs from a shelf above the freestanding oven before collecting teabags from a container in the pantry.
My routine is so familiar that only the compact design of Mara’s kitchen stops me from believing I am back in my youth, striving to be the “good boy” she wanted me to be when I acted out in rebellion.
I knew what was happening to me wasn’t the norm, but my mother never queried while I misbehaved. She said I was jealous that she paid more attention to my new stepfather than me and that I’d have more than a handful of “minor” injuries to contend with if I ruined the best thing that had ever happened to her.
I’m so deep into wading through the throes of my past that I don’t realize the kettle is whistling loud enough to wake Mara’s neighbors until she leans over me to switch off the gas implement.
I jump when the frilly edge of her dressing gown brushes past my back, and I fucking hate myself for it.
This isn’t about me. It wasn’t back then, and it isn’t now. Not in the slightest.
I put a stop to my self-loathing when Mara whispers, “S-sorry,” before she removes the kettle from the stovetop, fills the mugs, and then fetches the milk from the refrigerator.
“Your hair is wet,” I murmur when the invigorating scent of her shampoo pulls me out of my nightmare. “You’ll catch pneumonia if you let it dry naturally. Let me dry it for you.” My last sentence leaves my mouth before I can stop myself, and it pummels me with shock.
My bewilderment is understandable. The faintest whiff of a feminine product only hours ago gave me hives. Now, I’m convinced one sniff of Mara’s hair could calm the wildest storm.
Mara’s wet hair swishes against her back when she twists to face me. “Um…”
“Please,” I plead, not above begging for the chance to fix my mistakes.
Her eyes dance between mine for several heart-thrashing seconds before she whispers, “O-okay.”
With our teas discarded before they’re touched, Mara helms our walk back to the bathroom for a towel. It dawns on me that her shampoo comes in a range of bathing products when my cock stirs at the scent clinging to the steam of a scorching-hot shower.
“We can go back to the kitchen,” I say when Mara’s hand shakes as she passes me a semi-damp towel. “I don’t mind.”
“He-here is fine.” Her tone is confident despite the shake of her words. “They will keep winning if-if we don’t take the occasional leap of faith.”
With the strength of a tigress, and before I can acknowledge that she said “they,” she turns her back on the only exit and tugs out the elastic keeping her drenched locks hostage.