Chapter 4
SERA
Everything is too bright. Too soft.
I keep my eyelids screwed shut against the light. Press a hand to my head to hold back the ache.
I’m dead.
That asshole Rocco lost control and killed me and that’s why I can feel a pillow behind my head and the soft slide of fabric against my skin and light against my closed eyes. The only explanation is that I’m dead, and the afterlife smells like lilac and coffee and something else I can’t place.
“Holy shit.” My voice comes out low, scratchy and, honestly, sounds a little weird for being deceased. Shouldn’t death be like a system reboot, sending you back to your original factory settings? Why do I sound outdated and worn out?
I crack my eyelids and my eyes start watering immediately, vision blurry. That doesn’t seem right either.
Neither does the tube-y thing that’s attached to my left arm. I fumble with my other hand, trying to feel what it is because my vision is completely screwy. The only thing I manage to do, however, is jostle the line, a quick pain radiating out from the insertion point.
It’s like a pinch to the arm. A trigger to wake up.
I push myself into an upright position and squint at my surroundings, trying to bring the picture into focus.
Observation one: I’m in bed.
Two: The bed is in a nondescript room. Neutral tones, generic artwork. If I’m seeing things right, it’s high quality but impersonal. Like a fancy hotel or a corporate apartment.
Three: There’s a full wall of floor-to-ceiling windows opposite the bed and the curtains are drawn on all of them. Thick ones, blocking all light except the slivers that bleed in from the edges.
The room isn’t bright at all; it’s my eyesight that sucks.
I let my surroundings sink in and, compounded by what looks like an IV in my arm and a gnawing ache in my stomach, I have to acknowledge that I’m probably not dead. Which is great, I suppose, depending on whose room this is and why I’m in it.
The bedroom door opens and I yank the sheets up to my chin.
A large figure steps through, carrying something in both hands.
My situational awareness is heightened, my other senses still overcompensating for my fuzzy eyesight.
My gut instinct, based on height and stride, says it’s a man. A large one.
He heads toward me, abruptly stopping a few feet away. It doesn’t matter how many times I blink, I can’t make his face come into focus.
“You’re awake.” A rough voice coasts over me, low and scratchy. Some neurons somewhere label it oddly familiar.
“I—” My vocal cords catch, throat closing. My need for water goes from zero to sixty in a heartbeat. “Thirsty.”
His only answer is to set whatever he’s holding on the nightstand then lift something to my mouth. I startle when his hand steadies my head but am quickly distracted by the liquid that hits my lips. Room temperature, watery but not quite water. Some sort of hydration drink, if I had to guess.
I struggle with the first sip, dribbling it down my chin, then take long drags. The man pulls the glass away before I’m done. “Not too fast.”
I make a sound of protest and he explains, “You’ve been severely dehydrated. The IV is helping, but you have to be careful about how fast you fill your stomach. Don’t want to throw up again.”
There’s a rough rhythm to his voice. A cadence that sounds different from what I’m used to. I lean toward that voice as if proximity will make it easier to see its owner more clearly.
“Your eyes—they are bothering you?”
I nod, surprised he can read me so well.
“Close them. Don’t open until I say.”
I plaster my palms over my eyes. “Bossy.” It comes out scratchy but audible. I swear I hear his footsteps pause before he continues with whatever it is he’s doing.
Moments later his weight depresses the mattress next to me. I jump when he touches the backs of my hands, moving away to sever contact. It doesn’t matter how soft this bed is or how many drinks he gives me, I’m done with men touching me.
“Open your eyes now.”
I do and instantly regret it. The room is so bright it’s practically throbbing white, supernovas on every surface. I wince, immediately try to hide my face. “No. Wait.” The calm command stops me. “Don’t hide from it. Your eyes will adjust. You just need to give them time.”
“How do you know?”
“The doctor explained. You’ve been in the dark so long your eyes have to work harder to focus. With the blindfold on, you’ve been blinking less too. That makes your eyes dry, irritated. It’s going to take some time to get them back to normal, but it will happen.”
Water pools on my lower lids, tripping over with every blink. Slowly, my vision starts to clear. One curtain is drawn back, sunlight bathing a corner of the room. He’s right. After the initial shock, I’m able to adjust, bring my surroundings into sharper focus. Including him.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but he isn’t it.
Golden-brown hair is swept off his broad forehead, the strands long and thick on top and trimmed short on the sides.
The stubble on his chin is darker, but it can’t conceal the sharp cut of his jaw or the subtle cleft in his chin. Or the wide sweep of his lips, which look surprisingly soft despite the serious line they’re pressed into.
There’s a cut on one side of his mouth, a thick angry line that draws my attention up past a straight nose and sharp cheekbones to his eyes. Ice-blue and intelligent, he’s studying me as closely as I am him. Two specimens under mutual microscopes.
His hard gaze pins me in place, like he’s daring me to react to the deep scar that runs from his forehead, through one arched eyebrow, across one eye and down to meet the red line on his cheek.
Part of it looks old, well-healed. The lower section is red, angry, like the wound has been recently re-opened.
The man breaks eye contact first. His attention drops to the floor, and I’m left with a second to absorb as many other hazy details as I can.
The bruises around his other eye.
The bandage that peaks out from the open neckline of his Henley shirt, not to mention the strong slopes of muscles the shirt can barely contain.
The dark curves of ink that wrap around from the back of his neck.
This man isn’t a knight on horseback, wielding a sword from a lofty height. He’s a warrior, fighting tooth and nail, up to his knees in sodden earth. He’s survived things. Dark things by the look of it. You and me both, dude. You and me both.
Speaking of dark things… “How did you know I was blindfolded?”
Those cool eyes flick to mine. “I saw it. You.”
“Where?”
“In the cell.”
“Oh.” Just like that the little bit of voice I’ve regained is gone. He’s still sitting next to me, his body a furnace, his weight substantial on the bed, watching me carefully as I absorb his answer. “Do you work for Rocco?”
“No.” He doesn’t break eye contact. His voice doesn’t change octave. Possible signs that he’s telling the truth—or is a consummate liar.
I’m no longer strung up by my hands or locked in a cell, but that doesn’t mean I’m safe. I’m with a strange man in a strange room with no idea of how I got out of Rocco’s house or why. I’d be a first-class idiot if I just took him at his word. “Why should I believe you?”
Blurry vision or not, I swear I see one corner of his mouth kick up. “You should not. Not without proof.”
“You have proof?”
“Da. In a manner of speaking.”
Da—one word and part of the puzzle falls into place. This man is Russian. That explains why he’s always sounded different.
Wait a minute—Always?
I trip over my own thoughts. Always. The word popped into my head unbidden, the sound of his voice triggering something deep inside my brain.
My stomach tightens, anticipation and uncertainty an unpalatable mix.
Now that my eyes are open, I don’t want to close them again, but I force myself back into darkness and tell him, “Say that again.”
“What part?”
“Any of it. Just talk. I need to hear your voice.”
He does. A series of quiet words, reassurances, some in English, others in Russian. It’s a catapult back to my uncle’s dungeon as much as it’s a thick blanket being wrapped around me, heavy and warm.
“It was you,” I whisper. In the span of time I was in Rocco’s basement, I heard only three voices: Rocco’s, Dario’s, and the one belonging to the man who tried to bring me comfort in the most unbearable circumstances.
I’ve dreamed about that voice. Dreamed the man it belonged to would get me far, far away from that hell. It’s almost impossible to believe he actually has. Especially since I have no idea why.