Page 135 of Violent Possession
The silence in the private elevator is even worse than in the car. There is nothing to look at but my own reflection: swollen face, black eye, cut mouth, torn clothes. Next to me, Alexei looks like a statue: no marks, no sweat, no sign of humanity aside from that thin cut.
The apartment door opens directly into the living room, minimalist and as sterile as I remember.
With the world carefully locked outside, Alexei says, “Take off your shirt.”
I stand still for a second. “I’m not one to obey tricks, Alexei.”
He walks to the kitchen, pours two glasses of vodka, then turns slowly, his eyes fixed on me. “I need to see the extent of the damage you’ve done to yourself. Or would you prefer that I tear it from you?”
I force myself to pull the fabric over my head, ignoring the pain that runs through the nerves in my arm and the scraped skin. The blood dries and sticks, tearing scabs and bringing back the metallic smell that never leaves me. I throw the shirt on the floor and look away to see my real situation.
The broken glass from the car—and from the crash—tore too many parts of me.
He walks up to me, vodka in hand. He hands me a glass—both shots are generous, but his disappears down his throat at once, while I can barely hold mine without shaking.
The alcohol burns in my mouth, then goes down, numbing my insides.
He lightly probes my rib. The touch is cold, but no less invasive.
“Nothing broken, but you’ll swell up within two hours.”
I try to smile, but I don’t have the energy. “Does the anesthetic work better if I finish the glass too?” I say, raising mine in a pathetic toast.
“Sit down.”
This time, I obey. I sit on the revolving circular stool near the kitchen counter, and he goes to the small bar in the back, gets a black box, brings it back, and opens it: inside, bandages, gauze, tape, scissors. A first aid manual for reckless idiots.
“How many of these do you have?” I say.
He circles me, analyzing every cut, every bruise that is already starting to bloom.
When he finally touches my rib, his fingers are firm, pressing on the exact spot that makes me flinch. An involuntary shiver runs through me.
“What is it, Alexei?” I let out, sharpening my tone because the pain and the alcohol and the taste of blood in my mouth make me irresponsible. “Afraid of breaking your new toy before you have a chance to play with it?”
And it all happens in an instant.
Alexei’s arm comes from behind and grabs me by the back of the neck, without warning, without hesitation—brute force from someone who knows exactly where and how to squeeze so as not to break, just to subdue. He lifts me from the stool and pushes me against the kitchen wall.
The impact reverberates through my entire body, and I feel the strip of skin where my shirt tore burn under the contact of the cold surface. I try to break free out of pure reflex, but he stiffens his grip, fixes my chin against the wall, and only then lets the air circulate. I could really fight, but something in his gesture sends a clear signal that the goal is not just physical domination.
“Do you want to test me, Griffin?” he whispers in my ear. “Do you want to know how far my self-control goes?”
I feel the palm of his other arm slide down my back, slowly descending to my waistline. The touch has something clinical about it, but it also has a trace of methodical violence that is all his own.
He holds me there, his body pressing against mine, and there is nothing but accelerated breathing and the creak of my pride trying to resist being crushed.
I let out a muffled laugh. “Are you going to teach me a lesson, is that it? Are you going to show who’s the boss of the fucking playground?”
I try to turn my face. He prevents it with ease.
“You’re so used to being beaten that you don’t recognize when someone wants to save you from yourself,” he says. “Or do you only work based on punishment?”
I think of all the nights I went into the ring ready to die because at least there someone was paying attention.
My whole life, outside of Seraphim, I was told I was a plague, a disease.
Alexei, at his worst, is telling me that I’m a problem he wants to solve.
