Chapter 2
Chapter two
JUDE GRAVES
Moscow is gray this early, the thick, gray clouds swollen with rain.
Windows stretch from the floor to the ceiling, all glass and steel.
And the room smells like Adriana’s perfume.
She’s wrapped around me, one bare leg slung over mine beneath the blankets, her toes brushing my calf every time she shifts.
Her nails trace lazy, absent-minded lines up my back.
It’s not comforting at all, since I know it’s possession from a person I don’t want to possess me.
I stare at the windows and count breaths in the quiet room.
My arm rests between us, and when I turn it slightly, the track mark from last night is already drying. It's a dark, rusted smear against my skin. I’d been too eager to get high before bed. If I was numb enough, maybe she wouldn’t want to fuck me.
It worked.
Adriana hums softly and presses her face closer to my shoulder. Last night, she snorted a metric shit ton of coke and wanted to talk about everything under the sun. So that was fun.
I swallow and look back at the city. A week ago, I was sharing a house with Micah.
Eating real food. Sleeping through the night sometimes.
Letting myself imagine a life where I didn’t have to answer to anyone but myself.
He and I were never apart for long. He was my best friend.
Now I’m here…alone. I don’t even have him to talk to about the shit in my head.
I suppose I relied on him to much. But the truth is…
I would likely already be dead if it weren't for him.
Now I’m sharing a place with the bitch, and the bastard is next door. She’s accepted whatever hollow version of me is forced back into her orbit. That’s the deal. I stop resisting, and she goes back to being my handler and sort-of girlfriend. It’s a strange trade, since I didn’t win anything.
She shifts again, her knee pressing between my thighs.
Her fingers pause when they brush the tiny wound on my arm.
Then she moves on. She’s been trying something new lately—distance.
Space. Like she’s waiting me out, knowing I’ll break eventually and come to her on my own.
A long time ago, I did give her affection.
That was before I got too heavy into the drugs and the killing.
But the further I fell, the more she started reaching for me.
We haven’t had sex since leaving the States. She hasn’t really tried…which is shocking. I don’t move or react to the way her nails trace over my skin. Her touch feels wrong because it’s supposed to. Because this is what I chose when I walked away from…
When I decided I didn’t get to want better things anymore.
So I just have to deal with it.
Adriana is the first to get out of bed. She stretches, arms lifting, the baggy pink sleep shirt riding up her sides before dropping back against her thighs.
The hem brushes her tan legs as she swings them off the mattress and pads toward the kitchen.
She moves with a confidence that really annoys me.
It's like she’s already satisfied and settled into this version of my life.
Next thing I know, I'll be forced into a fucking marriage.
I pull on my gray sweatpants and follow, the bedroom carpet thick beneath my feet.
I don’t bother with a shirt. The she-devil prefers it hot as hell in here.
Not surprised one bit. The suite opens into a polished marble-and-steel kitchen that’s a dream for people who like to cook extravagant meals.
She starts the coffee with a yawn, like this is our new normal. And I suppose it is.
Before she can turn around, I reach into the pocket of my sweatpants.
The motion is automatic as I dry-swallow an oxy, then chase it with a gulp of water straight from the sink.
I don’t look at her while I do it. I don’t need to.
I feel her attention snap to me anyway. Being around her constantly is weird as fuck because of how much she watches me.
I suppose when you're proud of something you own, you admire it often.
“You know,” she says lightly, “it’s been a week.”
I lean back against the counter, face blank. “Congratulations. You can count.”
She glances over her shoulder. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
She pours herself a mug, loads it with creamer, then turns. Her eyes drag down my chest, stomach, and where my sweatpants are hanging off my hips. I fight the urge to flinch.
“Are you not attracted to me anymore?” she asks.
I don’t answer.
She steps into my space anyway, close enough that I smell her sickly sweet perfume.
She sprays the shit into her hair so it lingers.
She presses like she always does, like proximity is consent if she doesn’t give me room to refuse.
Her hand slides over my stomach, fingers gently tracing, familiar in a way that makes my skin crawl.
I finally flinch.
Her hand stills. “Oh,” she says flatly. “You’re pouting. I see.”
“Shut up.”
She pulls back with a short laugh. “Jesus. Relax.” A beat. “I’m your girlfriend now.”
Now.
“I’ve been your girlfriend for almost eight years,” she adds, like that settles it.
I breathe out through my nose. “That’s a creative memory.”
Her green eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I didn’t agree,” I say evenly. “I never fucking did, Adriana.”
She scoffs. “Yeah. We’re both trapped here with Nolan. I can’t exactly leave, either. I never have been able to. And now, we’re all Alexei’s bitches. So might as well enjoy what we can.”
A wild heat sparks in my chest. I picture smashing her face against the marble. The sound it would make. I clamp down hard on the thought.
She steps back, arms crossing. “You know how insulting this is, right? Sharing a bed with a guy who won’t even fuck me?”
“I touch you plenty,” I say coldly.
“Not like you used to,” she mutters.
She turns away, grabs her coffee, and takes a long sip. Then she leans forward onto the counter, the collar of her shirt revealing the fact that she’s pushing her tits together.
A muscle ticks in my jaw as I saunter toward the vast windows.
I stand there, looking over the city, my phone heavy in my hand as my thumb hovers over her name.
For a moment, I consider calling. Hearing her voice.
Telling her the truth I should’ve said before I walked away. That I love her, and I’m so sorry.
A knot forms in my chest, and I drag in a slow breath before shoving the phone back into my pocket.
A camera shutter clicks behind me. I glance over my shoulder to see Adriana lowering her phone, already smirking at whatever she's going to post to Instagram.
I roll my eyes and turn back to the window, staring out at the city like it might somehow swallow the part of me that still wants to call her.
“You used to beg,” she says, pulling me back into conversation. “Chicago. Remember?”
“That was years ago.”
Her smile turns sharp. “You were on your knees...begging for a taste.”
“I was on drugs,” I snap, stepping into the kitchen again.
“Like every goddamn time.” I pinch the bridge of my nose.
The pill is settling in now, smoothing the world and slowing my reactions.
Exactly what I want. I’ve taken only opioids and opiates to keep me down.
Meth and cocaine make me viciously horny, and I don’t really want that right now. I don't want anyone anymore.
Other than her.
Adriana pouts, eyes locked on her screen when my phone vibrates. I know she tagged me in that photo, but I refuse to look at it.
“I don’t have the patience for this,” I say.
Her gaze snaps back to me. “Is this about her?”
Nausea immediately clamps over my stomach. I look past her to the windows, the rain streaking down the glass. “Don’t finish that thought,” I say quietly.
She watches me for a second, then smiles. “Figures.” She steps closer again. This time her fingers brush my arm, nails dragging lightly over the dried blood at the track mark.
I yank away.
“Fuck, Jude,” she snaps. “What—am I suddenly the villain now?”
I scrub a hand down my face. “You always were.”
She tilts her head. “Careful.”
“Why?” I ask. “You gonna drug me again? Call it consent while I can’t stand? Ride my fucking fingers while I’m nodding out?”
Her eyes flash. “I don’t want to do that,” she says, suddenly softer.
I don’t answer.
The anger drains out of her. She exhales and rubs her temple. “Whatever. You’ll come around.”
“I won’t.”
She sighs. “Neither of us have a choice in the matter. If I’m stuck in this hell, I at least want you. I fucking hate everything else, Jude. I always have.”
I move for the coffee, done with this conversation. The pill hums in my bloodstream, dulling the nausea, the rage...
Then—
“You know…you just need to let that little bitch go,” she mutters. “Emm—”
My hand is around her throat before the name finishes forming. I slam her into the wall. She gasps—then smiles.
“There he is,” she murmurs, grinding into me like this is her idea of filthy intimacy. “There’s my boy.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and tighten my grip.
You sick, stupid fucking bitch.
“Come on,” she whispers, nails digging into my arms.
I tear myself away before I kill her.
“Fine,” she snaps. “Be ready by nine. Nolan will be here.”
I lock myself in the bathroom and stare at my reflection.
I know how this ends. Sooner or later, I give in.
Not because I want her, but because numb is easier than alone.
And because if I push her too far, Nolan will make sure I remember how shitty withdrawal feels like.
Being a slave to a substance is so fucking brutal.
I hate myself for ever doing anything to begin with.