Page 16 of Deception

This isn’t the kind of groggy I felt after Tomasz drugged me at the club. This cotton clouds fuzz I’m floating in is worse because it’s completely stolen my autonomy from me.

The familiar sound of expensive soles grows louder, and as I’m trying to get my body to move, I’m stuck in the same sludge as I have been since I first came to, silently listening to the voices come and go. A prisoner in my body.

“Close your eyes and don’t move. Don’t let them know you’re awake yet,” she whispers, squeezing my hand tight.

It’s the first thing I’ve felt in ages. A real touch, and it’s enough to make my throat swell and my chest burn with the tears that sting the back of my eyes.

Strength, girl. Never forget your strength.I’ve left my luck behind, hoping it would save me. That Freddie would find my penny and that he would make it his mission to find me. Maybe it wasn’t enough. Maybe I should’ve told him what they asked of me. Where I was going. Instead of telling him goodbye, telling him I loved him, I should’ve made him promise to find me. Perhaps I wouldn’t be floundering in hopelessness now.

“Shhh… Shhh…” she tells me.

I’m certain she’s wiping my tears as the shadow of her hand shields my face from the sunlight.

“I’m going to help you…I promise,” she coos affectionately.

The concern is palpable, and although I can’t see her face, the sound of her voice is sure and sincere. I can’t help but believe her.

When my eyes flutter open to look at her, she tells me, “Don’t fight him. Give him what he wants, and I promise I’ll get you out of here alive. Just a little while…” The blue of her eyes has a familiar glint to it, cool and dark like a midnight sapphire. “I’ll set you free. I promise you…”

A groan vibrates from me as I try to smile while she cups my face.

“Go back to sleep and trust me. I’m your friend, okay?” Sweeping her hand over my face, she forces my eyes shut. “He won’t hurt you while you’re asleep.”

I don’t care if he hurts me—a part of me wishes that he never stopped. That his visits weren’t so quiet because I need something to pull me from this lull. The need to feel something other than this placid humdrum is making me desperate. If there’s anything I’ve been taught it’s that desperate people make reckless decisions. I can’t afford to be desperate or reckless.

“I’ll come back later,” she murmurs.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” The deep timbre of Tomasz’s voice fills the room, his heavy footfalls coming to a stop and his presence stifling the air.

Light fingertips trace over my hand before her soft footsteps disappear into the distance that he stormed from.

“Wake up, Little Red,” he orders gruffly, his shadow a tangible weight over me.

A man’s presence has never made me feel the way his does—small and destructible. Yet, the only time he breaks his silence is to coax me out of my haze with the promise of warfare. Tomasz wants a fight from me, and when he’s near me, I want to give it to him. As breakable as I am, his belief in my strength makes me desperate to prove it to him. He’s become a light in my darkness. A beacon pulling me from no man’s land.

The creak of the window beside the bed echoes before he pulls the chair closer to the bed and sits. The smell of ink and newsprint wafts over my face when he shakes out the newspaper and then reads the headline aloud. Shortly, the scent of fresh coffee follows, making me believe it’s morning. A potential new day.

His first visits of the day are bright and tinged with caffeine. While the last are pungent with the scent of his cigar and the sweetness of the vodka, he savours in the dark. Then there’s her and her prayers. It’s an endless cycle that I’m lost in.

“Economic crash of export set to devastate businesses and cost thousands of jobs across Russia.” He pauses with a dubious murmur before taking a sip of his coffee. “It’s not exactly news, is it?”

My mouth waters at the smell, and if I don’t swallow, I’ll choke on my spit. The sound of my throat constricting makes me cringe as he comes closer. His breath flutters over my face, so hot that my scalp tingles with the needy, euphoric buzz that courses through me.

“Petrushka…” he whispers low, his finger plucking at my Cupid’s bow while he carries on singing, “Puppet on a string.”

The heat of his breath across my bare skin feels good enough that I want to pray for a quick death with every forlorn shudder that rolls through me. The movement fills the surrounding air with an excitable crackle.

He knows I’m awake.

My toes curl, pulling at the cuts and scrapes on my feet. Another cold lance of my predicament stabs through me. Guilt and resentment coil around my chest as I relish the feel of the rough pads of his fingers trailing from my palm up to my elbow.

“I’m getting bored with waiting.”

The whispers and breezes of his touch and presence are worse than the violence I keep internally begging for. I need to feel something. All this numbness is wreaking havoc with my sensibilities. It’s making me crave more of his touch in ways that I shouldn’t.

Never forget who you are, child.

My grandmother’s words murmur in my muted thoughts as I pry my eyes open, ignoring the sting and the stab of discomfort that rolls through me as I glance up at the painted ceiling. My eyes trace over the intricate paintings and mouldings. In the spotted haze, heaven appears so close. Tangible. Real.

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