Page 8 of Poisoned Roses

TATIANA

Why am I so afraid? It’s almost as if I had a premonition in the car. Perhaps it’s because this evening has been so sinister it’s rubbed off on my self conscious.

I was certain of only one thing: I shouldn’t be alone right now. That something is lurking in the shadows—or someone!

Titus must consider I’m a freak, especially after our conversation in the car. I can’t explain my reaction to him, but I understand he’s exactly what I need right now. My dark, mysterious, definitely cruel companion could also be my protector because if there is somebody out to get me, they must go through him first and I don’t rate their chances.

Better the devil you know, they say, which is a joke because I know as much about him as I do Boris Fedorov and yet I believe I can trust him. I don’t think he’s out to kill me, not yet, anyway.

We make it to the elevator and if I thought I could breathe easy again; I was misguided. Being in a car with this man was an experience I’m unlikely to forget, but here in this little metal box there is nothing to stare at but one another.

Luckily, the journey will be a short one and so I stare at the floor and say nothing, hoping he doesn’t question me.

He says nothing at all, but Ifeelhis questions. They are all around us, but I ignore them. His tactics won’t work on me. I can live without speech and like him, I keep my thoughts to myself and as we reach my floor, the door opens into the rather austere hallway.

I am not rich. Not even close, and the ring on my finger probably cost more than I have ever earned from dancing. My apartment building is considered a good one, but the paint cracked on the walls and the dirt on the floor is worlds away from the place we just visited.

I’m guessing it’s also a world away from Titus Romanov’s home, and he must be disgusted with being here at all.

As we approach my apartment, I struggle to breathe because sitting outside may as well be a declaration of war.

I stop and stare in horror at the bunch of flowers that followed me from my dressing room, propped up against the door, and my knees tremble as I head toward them, knowing that whoever left them here knows where I live.

Titus leans down and lifts them up, and I note the white card nestled in the folds of the tissue paper.

I swallow, but my throat is dry as he plucks the card from the bouquet and raises his eyes.

“You are mine.”

His gaze is deadly as it incinerates my soul, and in this moment I realize exactly who I am playing with and my heart settles. Thank God.

I say nothing and take out my key and my fingers shake as I attempt to open the door. I’m surprised when his hand closes around mine and he whispers, “Allow me.”

I nod, stepping away from the door and as it opens, he says huskily, “I’ll go first.”

I stay close as he reaches for the light switch, effectively chasing the shadows away and, as the room illuminates, I gaze fearfully around me.

I don’t have much. I don’t require much, just the bare basics. There are no homey touches, photographs or pictures. No cushions, ornaments or rugs on the floor. I lead a very simple life because my life is dance and when I return home it’s to eat, sleep and recharge for the next day. For so many years I have lived and breathed dance. It is all I require and now my passion is bringing about my downfall because I have attracted unwanted attention and not just from the State.

Titus tosses the keys to the table and moves through my small apartment, checking every corner and behind every door. It’s only when he has thoroughly searched that I expel the breath I’m holding and relax for the first time tonight.

He says in his husky whisper, “It’s all clear.”

He nods to the flowers. “What’s that all about?”

I take in a deep breath and decide to trust him because something is telling me I can.

“It started a few weeks ago, possibly even a couple of months.”

I sit on the edge of the couch and stare at the black rose in the center of the arrangement and a dark shiver passes through me.

“I don’t know who sends them. They turn up before, or after, every performance and the note always reads like a dark promise. A threat if you like.”

He sits beside me and for some reason it tugs on my heart as he reaches for my hand, that is still shaking.

“What–”

I make to snatch it away and he says firmly, “Relax, Tatiana. There is nothing to fear. Just relax and breathe.”

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