I scream it until my voice breaks. Until the drug pulls me under.
And he never comes.
I cry his name into the darkness of the cell they keep me in and into the floor here in Moscow for the first three months.
I call for him, over and over, but he never answers.
He used to drop everything when I called his name. He used to catch me. He used to spin me around and make me feel like nothing in the world could touch me.
Eighteen months have passed, and he never comes.
He must have realized I wasn't worth looking for.
A sharp snap echoes through the room.
My eyes fly open, and I'm back in this cold room and suffocating dress. Maxim stands in front of me, his fingers snapping again to get my attention.
"Are you listening?" he asks, his tone sharp.
I blink at him, my mind scrambling to catch up.
"Da," I say, and then correct myself. "Yes."
He narrows his eyes but seems satisfied. He steps back, gesturing to the maids.
"Finish getting her ready," he says, then walks toward the door.
Olga and Anya move around me again, and I swallow my tears and memories and hope the pill numbs me enough to take them away.
3
ADRIAN
The streetlights of Bucharest flash across the tinted windows as we drive along. Muted bursts of light streak across the interior before plunging back into darkness.
I feel off. Granted, I haven't felt sane for 18 months, but now, knowing she's out there, I don't even know what reality is anymore.
I don't even know how it's possible, but even my skin feels too tight now.
It's stretched over my bones like it's desperately trying to contain every muscle in my body, which are in such a coiled state they may snap at any moment.
My jaw aches and my knuckles crack when I flex my fingers.
I glance at the minibar, but I don't reach for it.
I want to. The crystal decanters catch the light every time we pass under a streetlamp, and I can practically taste the burn of whiskey sliding down my throat. But I don't touch it.
I need to be sharp. I need every nerve ending firing. Alcohol blurs the edges, and I can't afford blurred edges anymore. Not for her.
I'm so intensely aware of everything. Even the tires on wet pavement are louder than they should be. I hear every rotation, every slight change in pressure as we turn corners. The leather seats creak when Victor shifts his weight. The ice in his glass clinks softly, and it's like nails on a chalkboard.
Everything is too loud.
Victor takes a slow sip of his drink, and I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He looks calm, and it's pissing me the fuck off.
"Where are we going?" I ask, my voice rougher than I intend.
Victor doesn't answer immediately. He swirls his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light.