5
SERA
“Itisyou, right?”
He nods, gestures to one of my hands. When I don’t respond he elaborates, “The proof I was talking about. You need to put your fingers here.” He indicates to the underside of his wrist. “You feel my pulse while I answer your questions. If my heart rate goes up, you’ll know I’m lying.”
“Is it really that easy?”
“No. But it’s the best I can give you right now.”
I’m getting more tired with every passing second, but I’m not going back to sleep without answers to at least some of my questions.
“Fine.” I hold out my hand. “Show me.”
Warm, strong fingers circle mine, the Russian adjusting his position until we’re close enough that I don’t have to stretch to reach him. He places my pointer and middle fingers on the inside of his wrist, the blue lines of his veins visible beneath a smooth patch of skin, incongruously vulnerable on man of such obvious strength.
“Do you feel it?”
A flush climbs up my chest. I’ve felt nothing but cold formonths. Longer, since before Rocco kidnapped me. It makes no sense that one innocent touch and four words from a virtual stranger should prompt a tide of heat to wash up my body. To make my mouth drier than a wasteland.
“Make sure you really feel it,” he says, expression serious. “You need to be able to tell if it speeds up.”
Right. This is a scientific process. Kinda, I guess? I focus all my attention on the two-inch patch where our bodies touch, letting my heartbeat fall into rhythm with his. “Okay. Got it.”
“Khorosho.” He’s watching my face. I’m watching my hand against his skin. “Fire away.”
“You didn’t answer my question, not out loud. Were you the one who visited my cell?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. No change in pulse rate.
“Why?”
“This works better with yes and no questions.”
I flick my eyes up to his. He’s not mocking me, just making a statement. “Fine. Were you trying to help me?”
“Yes.”
“Did Rocco know?”
“No.”
“Did you help him lock me in there?”
Something flares in those icy depths. Something that looks like anger. “No.”
“Do you work for my uncle?”
My eyesight is slowly improving but I can’t tell if that anger has twisted into disgust or if I’m imagining things. His voice is clipped when he says, “No.”
“Are you going to bring me back there?”
Surprise passes over his rough and tumble features. He studies me a moment before answering, “No.”
“But you want something from my uncle?”
“Yes.”