Page 105 of Kept in the Dark
He exhales sharply, almost a laugh. “I tell you that I have taken a life, and you are concerned aboutmywell-being?”
I bristle at his unkind tone. “I already know about what you do, Dimitri. I knew Volkevich was going to die. I’m not upset about that, if that’s what you’re—”
“I beat a man to death,” he interrupts harshly, flexing his bandaged hand. “I killed him with my bare hands. And while I watched the life drain from his eyes, I felt nothing.”
My breath catches at the confession. My eyes flick down to his wrapped knuckles, and I itch to redo it for him. Our differences have always been obvious, but they’ve never felt quite so tangible as they do now.
Florence Nightingale and the Grim Reaper.
“I don’t believe you.”
His brows snap down. “No? You think there is some tenderness or remorse hidden deep? I am not redeemable. I am not broken. I am destroyed. Broken things can be fixed; there is no hope for things that are destroyed.”
“No,” I correct myself quickly, realizing his statement was purposefully meant to ruffle my feathers. “I mean, I don’t believe you beat him to death because your hand would probably be broken. I think you’re capable of it and strong enough to do it. I just don’t think you did.”
His bark of a laugh surprises both of us. “Clever, Nicole. You are correct. I did beat him, but in the end, I slit his throat and let it drain into the sewers where he belongs, like the rest of them.”
I swallow the thick bile suddenly coating the back of my tongue. I don’t like this. I don’t like how he’s talking about death like he hopes it will scare me. This feels like a test somehow—one I’m not supposed to pass. It’s like he doesn’t want to be the one to push me away, so he’s hoping I’ll do it myself if he throws something I don’t want to hear hard enough in my face.
I never asked to be shielded from what he does, but I don’t deserve these shock tactics either.
“If you’re trying to make a point, just make it, Dimitri,” I say, forcing a neutral tone instead of snapping like I want.
His icy eyes bore into me. “This is the line between us, and it always will be. We will always end up here because I take from the world and you give to it. But just as you cannot change what you are, I cannot change what I am.”
“What’s that? A hitman?”
“A monster,” he decrees, meeting my eyes with a kind of fierceness that makes my stomach flutter, even more than his declaration about killing someone with his bare hands.
The chills that have been hovering just under my skin for this entire conversation spread outward, prickling unpleasantly. I shake my head.
He doesn’t really believe that about himself, does he?
Misinterpreting my denial for something else, he catches my hand, and the anger shifts to something else. Something softer, more urgent and pleading. “But a monster has his uses. I would be a good protector for you, Nicole. Say the word and I will beyourmonster. Or tell me no, and I… think I could find a way to let you go.”
I realize suddenly what this is really about. The USB. The encroaching reality. Tomorrow, we’re going to find out what’s been keeping me here, and he’s as afraid as I am about what comes next.
Our gazes lock. He sits up straighter so he can reach for my side, landing just below my bottom rib. His thumb rubs against the silky nightdress, a delicate rustle of calluses catching against fabric. The tiny friction goes straight to my core.
He doesn’t want to let me go. I can see it in his eyes.
He’s trying to convince me to see him how he sees himself and begging me to accept him for it anyway.
I open my mouth to reassure him, but I can't force the words out for some reason. My chest tightens as I realize why this feels so wrong. If I say yes now, he’ll think that I want himin spite ofthinking of him as a monster. I can’t let that happen—not when it’s so far from how I see him. I don’t want him to think of himself in that way.
But what the hell am I supposed to do? How do you tell someone you think that their self-image is fundamentally flawed? What could I possibly say that would be enough to erase years of additive experiences that convince us we are who the world tells us we are?
The world has tried to tell me who to be a hundred times. A thousand, maybe.
Be strong, but be vulnerable. Be independent, but you still need a partner, of course. Be mothering and gentle and put others first. Actually, putyourself first and take time for yourself. But don’t be selfish. Be brave. Be nice. Be a badass, but don’t intimidate anyone. Be smaller. Be different. Be less.
There’s no right way to be a woman, or to be me. And I’m willing to bet it’s similar for him—the things he’s been told about himself are just very different.
All I can do for him is what I’ve done for myself—to varying degrees of efficacy—which is to remind him thathegets to decide who he is.
“On the boat, you told me you were dangerous and violent, and then you took care of me when I was freaking out. You kidnapped me, but you… gave me space and earned back my trust. You try to warm me whenever I shiver. You know how I like my coffee, you bought me clothes, you always check to make sure my toes are covered by the blankets, you clean my glasses for me—”
“How do you know that?” he interrupts. “You are always asleep.”
