Page 12 of Vitaly

4

MILA

The smell of sawdust is what I wake up to.

I feel my nose crinkle from it and note the hard mattress beneath me. Something is off, but I’m not quite awake enough to know what it is. Not until my chest expands in a stretch and aches ricochet throughout my rib cage, halting my movements.

My eyes fly open.

All at once, I remember the job Nikita gave me, the men he sent after me, the man with the hood, the needle he stuck in my neck.

I try to sit up too fast and cringe as I fall back to the bed, a low groan crawling from my throat. Lifting a dull-colored quilt exposes the black T-shirt I’m wearing with an unfamiliar masculine scent stuck to it.

He undressed me.

My teeth clamp down as my ears heat. If my naivety didn’t piss me off so much, I might laugh at my initial assessment of the hooded figure, thinking he was some sort of vigilante. I feared for the sick bastard’s life.

I should’ve known better. Never in my life has someone been there to rescue me. Why would the universe send someone now?

Tossing a glare at the bowl of soup on the rickety nightstand, I brace my arms beneath myself and sit up slowly, my face twisting in pain. Once I’m fully upright, I lift the shirt to survey the damage, praying not to see a rib protruding from my skin or something as terrible as I feel, but my torso is wrapped in a white bandage.

My lips pulling into a frown, I rub my fingers over the cloth.

I take another look at the nightstand where the soup is, which, now that I look closer, isn’t just soup. It’s authentic-looking borscht. There’s a glass of water and a couple of pills next to it as well.

As if I’d ever consume anything this stranger gave me.

Who is he?

My narrowed eyes move to the door as I try to solve the impossible mystery without ever seeing his face. Based on his voice, his scent, this house… I don’t know him, at least not personally, but the borscht is a dead giveaway that he’s Russian. Or knows thatI’mRussian.

Is he a stalker?

I look around the small room. It feels dirty, but I think it’s just worn down from age. There isn’t much in sight—an old looking rocking chair, this bed, the nightstand, a boarded-up window, and a frayed rug on the dilapidated wood floor.

Planting my feet on the rug, I eye the door. If he boarded up the window, it’s almost certain that he locked the door. Still, with my teeth gritted, I get up from the bed and force myself to stand straight despite the urge to hunch. That tall bastard really did a number on me.

My spine stiffens as I freeze.

The job. Themoney.

The stranger must’ve found it.

Whipping my head around, I don’t find my clothes, including the coat the money was stashed in.

Fuck.

My hands clench and unclench as I continue to the door in nothing but the man’s T-shirt hanging to the middle of my thighs like a dress, my bra and panties underneath a nice surprise. When I make it to the knob, my jaw relaxes. The door is unlocked.

It creaks open to reveal a short hallway that leads to the living room of what I now realize is a log cabin. A fire crackles, and when I near the end of the hallway, orange flames appear, being fed a log by the man in the hood.

I think. He isn’t wearing the hood now, so it’s hard to say for sure.

My eyes squint at the back of his head, studying his thick, wavy locks of brown hair that look glossy, like he’s recently showered. A gray T-shirt hugs his biceps as he works the fire with a poker, and tattoos cover his arms, leaving little space for his natural skin.

The man is a stranger to me. Nothing about him looks familiar.

But as he turns to me, setting the poker down, my stomach drops.

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