Page 92 of Take the Sub and Run

“Then why can’t I come with you now, then come back here and?—”

“Because I can’t bear to watch you get hurt.” He turned to look at her, leaning back against the wall, as the hope he’d been holding inside him continued to wither.

“I won’t?—”

“Don’t lie to me, Sofie. Lie to yourself all you want, but don’t lie to me.”

She was trembling; he could see it from here, but she marched across the room to grab her pants, pulling them on.

He closed his eyes when she stripped off the shit to put on her bra before pulling the shirt back on.

“I told you I ran away. Again and again.”

She paused to listen, fingers on the buttons.

“But I didn’t tell you that I begged my mom to come with me. The last few years before she died, I realized what she was doing. What she’d become. And I knew it was bad. She was going to get hurt. Or arrested. Both. She was in danger, but no matter what I said, she refused to see it. No matter what I did, she refused to leave.”

“It’s not the same,” Sofie insisted.

“Isn’t it? You’re in danger, but refuse to even acknowledge it. You don’t have… You don’t have to be with me. I’ll help you, support you, even if we’re just friends.”

It would kill him to be close to her and not touch her and be with her, but he’d do it.

“Andrei…” Finally the tears that had gathered on her lashes fell, slipping down her cheeks. “I don’t have much. My world is small. My life is small. But my art…” She swiped her cheeks with the back of one hand. “I know it sounds stupid, but of all the things that have been taken from me, all the choices I never had, my art is the one thing I might be able to get back.”

Andrei nodded, though the fact that his heart was actively breaking made every movement feel dangerous and brittle.

“I understand. I truly do. But I can't watch you do this.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I'll get someone to take you home.”

He had his hand on the door when she called out, “Wait.”

He didn't turn.

“When it’s done, would you want…”

He was fairly sure he knew what she was asking. Someday, if she managed to steal back her art, and escape her father's influence, could they be together.

He should say no, because he wasn’t going to wait for her. When he got to London, he was going to grab the first willing sub he could and control every breath she took until this desperate, broken, helpless feeling faded.

He should say no, but he knew that day would never come, so instead he said, “If that day comes, find me.”

He heard a soft sob as he closed the door behind himself.

Sofie cried, slept, changed all her security passcodes, and slept some more before she was able to think past the grief.

She’d lost something precious when Andrei walked out that door, and it was entirely her fault.

She wanted to be brave, have adventures, but when he’d offered her a change for a true adventure—no, more than that, a life—she’d clung to what she knew. What felt safe.

It was Agent Baas who’d driven her home. The woman had let her cry quietly without asking questions. But she had talked. Agent Baas had talked about the psychological impact of abuse. How some people find it almost impossible to leave due to emotional ties, a safety in familiarity, or a sense they don’t deserve love. She talked about how abandonment and lack of security at a young age could affect someone for all of their life.

And when she dropped Sofie off, she’d handed her an envelope full of papers—printed articles for her to read, a list of local resources, and on the top, a handwritten note with the name of several therapists who would be a good fit for her.

After a shower and lunch—it was less than twenty-four hours since she last saw him, though it felt like longer—she sat down with the papers Agent Baas gave her.

It was past time to admit to herself that getting back her art wasn’t, by itself, going to be enough to make her feel like she’d taken control of her life. She’d built a shaky tower on the belief that if she could do that—become a woman capable of first manipulating her father and then pulling off an amazing art heist—she’d not only have her art but finally be a person brave and capable enough to leave everything she knew and start over.

Shockingly, none of the articles she read suggested committing crimes as a way to process her trauma. Apparently, art heists were not the kind of “work” that was meant when they said people had to do the work to get better.

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