Page 25 of Loathe Me (Touch of Death 1)
“Sasha,” I manage to choke.
He blinks, and a confused frown blankets his features, as he slowly focuses on me. His grip loosens enough for me to suck in a deep breath, but he doesn’t release me. Instead, the tiny space between us closes, until his chest is plastered to mine, crushing my body. Warm breath fans over my face and I twist my head to the side, avoiding his glacial gaze.
“I cannot decide whether you are ignorant or simply stupid,” he says.
I try to buck away from the wall, and he shoves me back so hard that my skull thuds against it. “Let go of me.”
His free hand grips my jaw in a bruising hold, forcing me to look at him. “I told you not to touch me, and yet here we are, malyshka.”
“I want to talk to my sister.”
Those cold eyes sweep over me, and a sickening shiver travels down my spine. I imagine he’s picturing all the ways he could end me.
“What you want is of little consequence.” He takes a very deliberate step back, releasing me. “You are insolent. Your childishness will be your downfall.” The words cut far deeper than they should.
“Take me to Enrique Bianchi,” I demand.
“No.”
“I will not let my sister marry him. I no longer want your protection.”
“It’s not your decision.” His face is a hard mask.
“She’s my sister.”
He says nothing, and I know he doesn’t care. This is just a job to him, a paycheck. Getting any kind of emotion from him is like drawing blood from a stone and I’m wasting my breath trying.
I turn and walk away without a word, rubbing over my aching throat. I can’t stay here. I have to get to my sister before she does something stupid. It’s a lot easier said than done, though. He’s made it clear where he stands on the issue. I’m a mouse trying to wriggle out from under the paw of a lion. The odds are not in my favor.
I wait until the apartment is dark and silent before I check the clock on the bedside table. The glowing red numbers read two in the morning. The second I toss back the covers, my heart starts to thrum in nervous anticipation, or maybe that’s anxiety. My foot touches the floor, and I slowly shift my weight onto it. I need absolute silence. My breaths are harsh, and my pulse is thrumming against my eardrums so loudly, I’m sure Sasha can hear it from the next room. The door handle lets out a quiet click before opening. I tiptoe around the edge of the living room until I reach the kitchen. The front door is within reach. I can’t see it in the darkness, but I know it’s just a couple of meters to the end of the hall.
“What are you doing?”
A squeak slips past my lips, and I almost jump out of my skin. “Shit.” My heart pounds against my ribs so hard I can barely breathe. “Do you have to be so creepy?” I ask into the darkness.
“What are you doing?” he repeats.
I stumble over words for a moment. “I’m getting a glass of water.” I walk into the kitchen and get a glass, filling it before traipsing back to the bedroom. I know he can’t see me, but I glare in his general direction. It’s like he never sleeps. I swear, the man isn’t human—I’m becoming more and more convinced of it.
8
Adelina
A week in this apartment—alone with Sasha—and I’m halfway to madness. Meanwhile, he seems to thrive in the solitude of his self-imposed bubble.
He still hasn’t let me call Gabi, but I need to talk to her. I’ve pleaded my case, tried to explain it in clear terms that even a psychopath can understand. But of course, he can never empathize; he doesn’t understand love. He can’t comprehend the loyalty of true family, but I have to get out of here. If I can get to Gabi, I can talk her out of this stupid plan. And if I can’t…then, I can just go to the Bianchi’s. They’ll have what they want. Gabi and Daddy will be safe. I just have to get out of here.
My test run has proven that there’s no way I’ll get past my guard dog. The only other option is the window, but we’re four stories up, and the exterior wall is smooth. No balconies and the next window is a good two and a half meters below. I can’t reach it. There’s no way to scale it without a rope, and I don’t happen to have ten meters of the stuff just hanging around.
Sasha sits on the sofa, his spine rigid as always with a book in his hand. I catch a glimpse of the cover and do a double take. The Art of Happiness by The Dalai Lama. A tiny crease line sinks between his brows as he concentrates on the words. Maybe he’s not as bad as I think. I mean, he’s reading The Dalai Lama. That’s very non-sociopathic behavior, right?
