Page 22 of Loathe Me (Touch of Death 1)
“No, no, no. Again!” Nicholai. It’s his voice, but I can’t see him. Surrounded by darkness, my senses are muted. A blow lands on my gut, and I gasp for the very air that’s so violently forced from my lungs. “You’ve grown weak, Sasha!”
With a growl, I shove to my feet. Another blow to my face and my head snaps to the side. Blow after blow. Time and time again. I fall. I’m…useless. Nicholai’s laughter echoes around the space, coming from everywhere.
“I knew it. You’re nothing without me. I made you so strong, and now look at you.”
“No. No!”
“You’re no longer a soldier. What are you, Sasha?”
What am I?
I lurch awake. When I open my eyes, I find Adelina leaning over me, her eyes wide and her hands in the air.
“Sasha,” she whispers.
By the time I register my knife at her throat, the edge of the blade has already sliced her smooth skin. Blood wells and beads, sliding down her neck. Lurching away, I drop the knife, and it lands on the coffee table with a clatter.
“You- You were shouting. Having a bad dream.”
Anger rises up unexpectedly. I’m never angry, and the feeling is foreign and uncontrollable, unwelcome. “Never touch me!” I snap.
She stumbles away.
Una and I grew up in a Bratva military facility where we were deprived of human touch, prohibited from physically interacting with each other in any way. And once they did start to touch us, it was with an electric glove. Five hundred volts passed through our bodies with each contact. The mind learns quickly, any touch is a threat. It’s ingenious really, using the body’s basic need to survive to turn a subject into a reflexive killer. Una could never stand more than two hundred volts. The therapy made her rabid. It made her the best, and her reactions were faster than any of the other Elite. Still, the lower voltage meant she managed to avoid the burns.
The slamming of a door tears me from my thoughts. I hurt her. Cut her. On a groan, I drag myself off the sofa and go to the kitchen in search of a first aid kit.
I can hear the faucet running in the bathroom, so I knock on the door and wait.
“What?”
“Open the door.”
“Just go away, Sasha. I’m fine.”
“Open the door,” I repeat, my patience quickly evaporating.
The door swings wide, and she stands there, toilet tissue pressed to her neck and a hardened glare etched into her expression. “What do you want?”
I step inside the bathroom, but she doesn’t move. Her chest presses to my stomach, and she tilts her head back, ensuring her glare remains fixed on me. She’s stubborn. I push forward until she’s forced to step back. Her hips bump against the vanity, and I grip her waist, lifting her and placing her on the side. The thin satin of her pajama camisole warms under my hands, as the heat of her skin seeps through. Her breath seizes, and her eyes go wide as she tenses under my touch.
Grabbing her wrist, I tug it away from her neck. Blood still wells at the thin cut, tiny beads collecting along the split. Opening the cabinet over the sink, I take out a wash cloth and run it under the tap before wiping away the blood from her skin.
“You shouldn’t touch me,” I say.
“You already said that.”
“You’ll get hurt.”
“Yeah, I figured that.” Her eyes narrow. “You have PTSD.”
“No.”
“You’re a soldier…”
“Not that kind of soldier.”
Her lips press together, and I can see the questions in her eyes. “You were having a nightmare. I was just trying to wake you up.”
I take the flannel away from her neck and open a couple of Band-Aids, sticking them to the wound.
“I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say. No one’s ever woken me from a dream. And I’ve never hurt anyone I didn’t intend to hurt. It bothers me to know that I could respond without truly being in control of my own actions.
“Sasha.”
I meet that blue gaze of hers. She tilts her head to the side and lifts her hand as though to touch me before it drops again. Sadness rises in the depths of her irises, and it makes me uncomfortable.
Clearing my throat, I step back and then walk out of the room, leaving her. She’s a job. I’m an assassin. I don’t need pity.
Five days have passed, and I’m restless. I’ve been known to wait weeks for a kill, biding my time, planning the hit to perfection. This is not a kill. This very much feels like babysitting.
I’ve just turned off all the lights in the apartment and am about to lay down on the sofa when my phone vibrates over the coffee table. Una’s name flashes across the screen.
“Yeah?” I answer.
“Sasha. Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
She’s like an over-protective mother. If I weren’t okay, I wouldn’t answer the phone. I hate to admit it, but I think she’s become soft.
