Page 2 of Scarlet Promise
Same with my talk at his graveside and the peace that drifted in, one I can recognize now so clearly.
I think he’d choose Ilya for me.
Like I did.
I want Ilya. I want his arms around me. I want him to save me and bring me home to Albert, to him, to life.
I want Ilya?—
From outside, I hear something. A voice. The words aren’t clear at all, and I don’t think it’s that’s close. It’s just noise in the form of a human voice.
But if I can hear it…
Whoever it is, is close enough.
I get to my feet and stumble over the floor, almost falling once from my sudden momentum.
My hands ache as I pound on the door. I kick it, too, ignoring the pain that lances up my ankles and legs, ignoring my muscles that are stiff from the abusive, repetitive movement.
“Let me out!” I shout. “Please! Help me! I’m hungry, thirsty!”
Nothing. There’s only one door. This prison-cell model doesn’t come with the world’s most disgusting toilet.
“Please, let me out! I need to pee! Please?—”
Suddenly the locks clink. A key turns, and the door opens. Before I can do anything, I’m thrown on the floor.
I stop myself from face-planting with my hands, slamming my knee into the cement, pain ricocheting through me with a nauseating crash.
Slowly, with determination, I push my aching body up, gritting my teeth as I go. I won’t let them win. I won’t.
I’m aware I should probably roll with the pain, let them see me small and weak and pathetic—more so than I am, milking it for what it’s worth—but right now, anger also lances me. I’ll be damned if I let them see me beaten down.
Not yet.
They’ve locked me up, given me one pathetic bottle of water, and knocked me out to the point I don’t know a thing.
I need something to control. The only thing I have is me.
I’m on the edge of breaking down, breaking apart, but I won’t let that happen. If I get out, I’ll dissolve into a mass of tears, but until then… I’ll get up every time they knock me down and show my defiance.
The look on the ugly man’s face is indifference. He doesn’t care.
“What? Keep making a racket, and I’ll teach you the virtue of silence.”
“Scared passersby will hear me?” I ask.
He laughs, showing yellow teeth. “Nobody can hear you except me. And you give me a headache.” He scans me, lingering on my breasts beneath my T-shirt. “We can pass the time another way, put your mouth to use.”
I glare. “You touch me, and my husband and brother will kill you.”
“They’d have to find you first,” he says with a sneer. “You need to piss?”
I flinch. I don’t know why. In the grand scheme of offensive words, piss doesn’t really register. But it’s something about how it falls from his mouth, the slimy intent within him.
“Yes.”
“Very well.”
