I become aware of just how exhausted I am when my knees give out, dropping me on my ass next to the unconscious man on the floor. “Fuck.”
“My thoughts exactly,” grumbles the lump.
I scramble back—a useless two inches—as the Russian starts to unfold. The bigger he gets, the smaller I make myself. Knees curled up under my chin, arms protecting my legs, head tucked down. By the time he’s sitting upright, I’m shaking so hard my teeth are clattering. There’s no way he’s not going to punish me for trying to escape.
So much for all my bravado. I sense him reaching for me and all I can do is wrap my arms over my head and brace for impact.
You’ve survived so much, Sera. Whatever he’s going to do to you, you can survive it too.
Except the hit doesn’t come. “Marya?”
Confused, I lift my head a fraction, wondering who the hellhe’s talking to. There’s no one else here. Even with my shit eyesight I can see that. “Who is Marya?”
Those cold blue eyes find mine, lock and hold. My skin prickles with awareness. Of his size, his proximity, his strength concealed so lazily behind his casual position on the floor. “Are you hurt?”
I’m so taken aback I almost laugh. “Are you kidding?”
“Why would I kid? You’re supposed to be in bed, healing. Instead, you are on your ass in the hallway. It’s a serious question. Are you hurt?”
Dazed, I shake my head. “Are you?”
The Russian touches the back of his head, right where I hit him. When he takes his hand away it’s clean. “I’m fine. Disappointed?”
“Yes,” I lie. Because I’m not disappointed. I’m relieved he’s okay and I don’t know how to reconcile it with the fact that I’ve failed to get the fuck out of here.
Oblivious to my internal struggle, the Russian stands and offers me a hand, his outstretched palm so close I can’t mistake it for anything but an offer of help. “Don’t worry, Marya. You can try killing me again when you’re feeling better.”
Ignoring him, I push myself off the ground, leaning against the wall to stay steady. “Why do you keep calling me Marya?”
“Do I?”
“You know you do.”
“Hmm,” is his infuriating answer. “Can you walk or should I offer to help so you can brush me off again?”
Asshole. “It depends on where we’re going.”
The Russian’s casual expression goes clinical as he drags his eyes up and down my body. My senses are still in hyperdrive. I’m oversensitive to everything. That must be why his gaze feels like a physical touch, heat washing across body parts concealed beneath clothes that could’ve only come from him. That’s whya blush crawls across my cheeks when his attention snags on my hips and breasts.
“You’re well enough to get out of bed, you’re well enough to eat solid food. Come.”
Whatever hesitation I have, my stomach disagrees. At the mention of food, it growls so loud I jump. The Russian is already making his way to what must be the kitchen, flipping on lights as he goes.
Leaving me alone in the hall. Steps from the door.
I can leave. Walk out right now. I doubt I’d get far. Probably wouldn’t even make it to the elevator before he realizes I’m gone and comes running after me. But let’s say he didn’t—what then?
I don’t have money. Or a phone.
I don’t have a coat or shoes.
Or anywhere safe to go, or a clear understanding of how extensive my injuries are.
Or if Rocco is alive and looking for me.
Or any idea where I’ll get my next meal.
Or any clue where in the world I actually am. I might not be in Chicago anymore. Shit, I might not even be in the US.