Page 51 of Kept in the Dark
“You’re wet,” I observe, not moving away. The moisture and heat that rolls off him makes the air swampy and humid, but I don’t care.
He tightens his arms around me, holding me steady as another wave slams into the boat and makes a loud crashing noise. His legs shift under mine, and he angles towards me more.
“It is raining,” he returns in that dry tone.
It’s such an absurd response that I have to laugh, even if it sounds a little weak. His head comes down on the top of my hair, and I think I can feel his cheek round, like he’s smiling too. As the minutes tick by and we sway together, my heart rate calms. The adrenaline dissipates. The panic in my stomach uncoils. I feel my body relax against him.
“So mnoy ty v bezopasnosti. YA vsegda budu tebya zashchishchat'. Tebe bol'she nikogda nichego ne pridetsya boyat'sya.”
The low tones of his voice are so soothing, and the cadence of the unfamiliar language lulls me once I stop straining to understand. My fists uncurl, and I press my hand flat against his hard skin, pretending to myself that I’m just seeking more comfort, not feeling him up. The vibrations of his chest fill my palm.
“It sounds so pretty. What does it mean?” I ask the cotton of his shirt.
“It means do not be afraid,” he replies. His voice is more hoarse in English.
He definitely said more than that, unless Russian uses, like, six words for every one in English. I doubt it.
I will fuck you, and I will take everything.
The way I want you is violent.
Iam violent.
The memory of the fury in his eyes when he said that makes me shiver against him. As soon as I do, the hand on my hip disappears, and he leans us both to the side while he reaches for something. A second later, he’s draping a blanket around my shoulders, covering as much of me as he can.
My heart bangs against my ribs, and there’s a telltale prickling behind my eyes.
Why does this simple gesturehurtso badly? Because it’s kind and I’m an emotional mess? Because it makes me want to demand why he thinks he’s so savage? How could someone as brutal as he wants me to think he is also be so considerate?
Is he doing this to shut me up because I was crying? Or out of guilt for some unfathomable reason? Does he care, or is he just pretending to?
Every muscle in my body is exhausted, wobbly without the tension keeping me stiff. I don’t know what time it is, but I know it’s late. “I’m going to fall asleep like this,” I warn him, tucking my face back against his chest and hoping he doesn’t hear the longing making my tone thick.
He doesn’t reply, but I feel the nod against the top of my head.
“Don’t you have bilge anchors or water winches or something to check on? Something you should be doing instead of”—taking care of me—“this?”
“I am doing what I should be doing.”
Tears well in my eyes again.
Regardless of what he says, he is capable of being tender. He’s being so gentle with me. But regardless of what his actions show, what he thinks about himself is true because he believes it is.
When someone comes into the emergency room and I ask for their history, I have to take them at their word. When someone tells me that an entire zucchini got up their own ass because they sat on it, I raise an eyebrow, but I make a note in the chart. It’s part of my job. No judgment. I take what people say at face value, but with a grain of salt. I also watch their behavior.
People lie all the time, and often they don’t even mean to, or don’t realize that’s what they’re doing.
Dimitri is gruff and standoffish. He’s the byproduct of a country where people have hardened to match the bitterness of the cold. And even by those standards, he had it tough—introduced to organized crime before most kids get their license to drive. He doesn’t laugh. He barely smiles.
But his eyes do.
Still, I’m in no position to assume I know him better than he knows himself—when he tells me he’s dangerous, the smart thing to do is listen. No matter how badly I wish I could havethis. Us.
But for now, anyway, he’s pulling me close instead of pushing me away, and it’s making me feel even warmer than this blanket is.
“Thank you. I’m okay now. You can…” I close my eyes, forcing myself to say it, “let me go.”
His arms go slack, but when I pull back, I discover I can’t go far. I’m locked in a cage of flesh and bone. I lift my chin and find him staring, locked on my lips.
