And beneath the rage, there's something else that's fueling all this, too.
Shame.
I think of the men who looked at me before I arrived in Moscow.
I think of Maxim's hands on my skin, his breath on my neck, his voice in my ear telling me I belonged to him.
I think of the pills he forced down my throat, the way he paraded me through rooms full of people who looked at me like I was a prize to be won.
And I think of Adrian.
The boy who kissed me in the square and promised to protect me.
The boy who left me to rot.
The shame twists into something darker, something uglier.
Is this my fault?
Did I do something to deserve this?
Am I not worthy anymore because of what I'd let happen to me?
Or is it all because of him?
My breathing quickens, my chest constricts as the thoughts spiral out of control.
I can't sit here anymore. I can't stay in this room with this anger clawing at my insides.
I need to see him. I need to know why.
I stand abruptly and march out of the bedroom.
Moving down the hallway, I'm not even sure where I'm going, but the anger is pushing me.
I follow the sound of movement, my pulse pounding in my ears, my hands trembling with the force of the rage building inside me.
I find him in the living room.
He's sitting in a chair, his phone in his hand, typing something.
Beside him, the fire crackles.
He looks fine, content even, and that snaps loose everything.
"Adrian."
My voice is sharp, assertive.
He looks up, his dark eyes locking onto mine.
For a split second, I see relief flash across his face, and then he takes in the look on mine.
He stands, his phone lowering to his side.
"Leni..."
"Don't."