Page 26 of Kept in the Dark
“A safe house.”
The distinct lack of details is intentional, I think. He doesn’t really plan on answering my question. Still, I have to try. So I ask, “Where is it? How far?”
“A safe house is only safe if no one knows where it is,” he counters.
What an infuriating non-answer, even if I begrudgingly have to admit that it makes some sense. Or, it’s self-consistent, anyway. But who am I going to tell? And how would I? As far as he knows, he threw away my only phone.
Okay, so he’s not being super forthcoming, and that benefit of the doubt is stretching a little thin.
Exhaustion hits me, and I slump in my seat. The thin material of my dress doesn’t do much in the way of warmth—I’m freezing and my coat is miles behind us, abandoned in a closet at the estate. My back is covered in tiny cuts that sting when they touch the leather seats. My feet are numb with cold right now, but I know they’re bruised and bloody from our jaunt through the woods. These contacts are getting really scratchy, but I need to wash my hands before I touch my eyes to take them out.
To put it mildly, I’m in rough shape.
I let out a long breath that I know sounds tired. Reaching up, I remove the bobby pins from my up-do so my hair can act as a curtain. Then, I lean against the headrest, turn my face towards the window, and close my eyes.
Silence falls for a while.
“Nicole?” He’s checking to see if I’m asleep.
Maybe it’s good if he thinks I’m asleep. I’ll have a slight advantage against an attack if he thinks I don’t see it coming.
I don’t reply, and he mutters something to himself in a language I don’t recognize. Must be Russian. The lilting cadence and smooth tone are almost calming, though I doubt he means it to be, considering nothing he’s said since we got into the car has been remotely reassuring. He’s clearly not trying to coddle me.
He starts moving, shifting back and forth in his seat, and it takes a lot of willpower not to sneak a peek to see what he’s doing. After a moment and a frustrated grunt, he unbuckles his seatbelt and resumes wiggling around with a bit more freedom. It clicks back into place, and a second later I feel a heavy warmth draped on the shoulder closest to him. I remain stock-still as he reaches over with his enormous wingspan and adjusts the other side of his suit jacket to cover as much of my torso as possible.
The scent of him invades my senses as I nearly cry from relief at the overwhelming warmth of his lingering body heat in the wool jacket. I inhale through my nose slowly and deeply, and fill my lungs with him. It’s clean, but salty and a little sour. It’s sweat after being at the beach. It’s showering without body wash and letting yourself air dry. It’s musky and masculine and human and so, so appealing.
I don’t have the energy to try to tamp down on the gratitude and longing I feel. It’s been a horrific night, and all I want to do is soak up this kindness. Lulled by the white noise from the road, the darkness, the warmth, and the manufactured feeling of safety by being surrounded by so much of him, I do exactly what I shouldn’t. I fall asleep.
9
Dimitri
Beds are for sleeping.
One of the interesting things about this part of the Northeast US is the redundancy of its infrastructure. There are always a dozen routes that will take you where you want to go. You can choose to avoid highways and tolls—and toll cameras—and you will still arrive at your final destination. Perhaps a few hours delayed, but it can be done. In a straight shot, I could be at the marina in just under two hours from the estate where the wedding was held, but I know that realistically it will take me four.
The rest of the drive is quiet and almost peaceful, and Nicole remains asleep for its entirety, snoring softly.
It is still pitch black when we finally arrive at the parking lot, but light will break before too long. I am greeted by the sight of crowded rows of gently rocking boats in the pale moonlight. The dock hosts over a dozen, but it is a simple thing to pick mine out of the crowd of gleaming white yachts because it is the smallest, and the only one made mostly of wood.
I come as often as I can to perform maintenance on the houseboatLuna,so I know that the batteries and gas tank are full and it is stocked with enough food to last two people several days on rationed calories. That should purchase us enough time for my team to find out what happened at the wedding.
I unbuckle myself and twist in my seat to face Nicole. When she fell asleep, I was grateful for the respite from her tense energy andmy body’s inappropriate reactions. Now, looking at her, I expect to feel irritated—she is an inconvenient reminder of the mistakes I made tonight—but I feel only a strange sort of tenderness. I stare for a while, taking full advantage of a stolen moment.
In sleep, her brow that was previously pinched in concern has smoothed. The brackets around her mouth and at the edges of her eyes are gone. Her shoulders move gently with the rhythm of her breath instead of bunching near her ears. She is at peace.
She is so… soft. Serene. Like a watercolor painting with rounded shapes and soothing colors. Looking at her makes me feel pleasant, calm, as if her peace flows into me—or perhaps I am stealing it.
But waking her is necessary. We cannot stay in this car, even to rest for a moment. We need to be on that boat before the sun rises.
Why does the thought of robbing her of her peace make my stomach drop?
I could try to lift her, to carry her to the boat, but the additional hours of losing blood and of being awake and alert have taken their toll. Without this wound, I could manage. But now… if she were to wake up confused and become alarmed, she would fight me, and I would likely drop her.
Unacceptable. She may not be fragile—in a way that is very pleasing to me—but she is precious cargo.
“Nicole,” I say, lifting my voice.
