Page 4 of Corrupted Guilt

He chuckles, laughing at me. The sound comes deep from his chest as it shakes against me. “I didn’t think so.”

His laugh dies down, finally. “How about a game, then? The stakes are too high in your mind. A game?”

“What game?”

“Chess?”

Pffft.

“Tag? Hide and go seek? How about if you escape from your room, and run across the lawn, and touch the trunk of the weeping willow tree in the corner before I stop you? If you win,I’ll ask your father myself to postpone the wedding and send you away instead. If I win, … well … I’ll take what I want.”

It’s a trap. I don’t know why he’d help me. Hewouldn’thelp me. Itmustbe a trap.

And there’s no misunderstanding his meaning, ‘I’ll take what I want.’ He licks his lips and looks over me.

My body leans into him again, against my will.

I shouldn’t want that.

Suddenly he lets me go, steps away from me, “Your choice, princess,” he says and walks out of the room.

I watch him go, my heart thundering in my chest, then I turn to the window, trying to make out the willow tree in the inky darkness.

I’ve made up my mind. I made it before Yuri came to see me, I just needed a little push.

2. Katya

I lean out of the window, look down at the ground, and get slightly dizzy. I’m on the third floor, so it’s about 25 feet down. A white lattice trellis against the house supports creeping ivy, and towards the bottom, climbing roses. If I can hang down and get my feet on the trellis, it’ll be like climbing down a ladder – still, I’ve never done this. Never snuck out, not once.

I threw one leg over the windowsill and start to wriggle out, carefully, slowly, my feet outside, then knees, then all but my wrists. I take a deep breath, fish around with my foot for the trellis and finally find it. I have no idea if it’s strong enough to hold my weight or if it’s rotten. One finger at a time, I release my body weight onto the V-shaped lattice.

Looking good …

It cracks but doesn’t break. It terrifies me but doesn’t send me crashing to the ground. I chose another foothold and this one is silent.

I take it agonizingly slowly, careful not to slip on ivy with my feet or hands, staying on the lattice, distributing my weight and listening intently for creaking, breaking wood.

Another step down.

And another.

My foot snags a vine, I yank it free.

“Holy shit, I’m actually doing it.”

Don’t celebrate until you’re done.

I reach the bottom of the trellis, push myself off and land on the soft, freshly mowed lawn. I look at the window I’ve just climbed down from.

Fuck yeah.

My gaze tracks down to the house, my eyes meet a floor-to-ceiling window at ground-level, directly across from me. I see my reflection in the glass, brush my hair back and whisper, “Screw you asshole. I don’t need to be rescued.”

I’ll get out of here and build a life of my own.

Get a job.

Rent out a motel room until I can find a decent studio apartment.

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