Page 24 of Wicked Duty
Fear explodes through my muscles, and I shove against my assailant’s chest. I must catch him by surprise, because he stumbles back far enough for me to escape by slipping out from between him and the counter.
“Lucy? Are you okay?”
Heat creeps up my neck and into my cheeks as I meet Callum’s concerned stare. The present returns, and I duck my chin. Oh god. What the hell was I thinking?
I drag in a deep breath, reaching for the counter as the room steadies. “I…I’m sorry.” My voice trembles. “I need to…go.”
With that, I flee to my bedroom, slamming the door shut behind me.
I cover my mouth to stifle my sobs. I’m such an idiot. Did I really think I could handle…whatever that was between us? That I could touch Callum? Fantasize about doing more withoutsuccumbing to a panic attack? What if I’d let things go even further and then went into complete meltdown mode?
I’m a mess. A giant, painful, embarrassing mess.
Raking a hand through my disheveled hair, I catch a glimpse of the digital clock on my nightstand.
Oh my gosh, I almost forgot. Today’s the Runway Revolution audition. I’ve only got a few hours before I need to leave.
Happy to find something other than my recent humiliation to focus on, my lingering anxiety soon gives way to excitement as I tick off a mental list of what I need to do to prepare.
I want to run outside to release all this energy, but I can’t. According to Commander Kavanagh, I’m forbidden from stepping foot on my own balcony without him there to guard my back. It’s a “security risk.”
He thinks I could get shot.
“On the eighth floor?”I challenged him a few days ago.“Do you think my attacker is planning to parachute in?”
His only reply was a flat look and, “Do you really think Viktor Roguilin’s never hired a sniper before?”
That instantly deflated me, because no. As much as I want my life back, I’m not that naive.
My mind flies back to the rat-and-rose-in-a-box I found on my doorstep the night Callum moved in. The memory pushes my heart into overdrive.
Before I know it, I’m reaching for my biggest secret, the one I keep hidden in the bottom of my favorite makeup bag. A small external hard drive.
I’ve held onto this cryptocurrency wallet since my rescue without ever telling another living soul. Not the authorities, not Dr. Shaw, not even Maya. The wallet is the only physical souvenir I have from my time in Viktor Roguilin’s captivity.
Whenever my fear of Viktor gets to me, I plug it into my laptop just to check that everything’s still there. All one-hundredand fifty-three million dollars of it. Sometimes, if I’m feeling particularly brave or nosy, I click through the contents.
The wallet doesn’t just contain money. There are also transaction records, contact databases, blackmail materials implicating some of the world’s most rich and famous. Folders upon folders upon folders ofdirtRoguilin kept on people.
Even though the idea of testifying terrifies me, seeing all that other stuff—the receipts of ugly deeds done over decades—gives me an extra little boost of courage. Like a shot of motivation that keeps me moving forward despite my terror that this asshole found where I live and has no qualms delivering gifts of decaying rodents.
The ironic thing is that I was only able to get my hands on the wallet because the monster liked me. He ordered Sophia Kovaleva to sell dozens of women at that auction, but when he noticed me among the lineup, he instructed her to set me aside and not to let anyone near me unless they planned to outbid him.
Needless to say, no one stepped forward to cross a man like him.
And so, up until the night of the auction, he confined me to the private bedroom connected to his office for his “personal relaxation.”
Compared to most of the victims, I was lucky. But that knowledge only makes me feel worse. Like I shouldn’t still be scared. Like I should’ve recovered already. Like I’m weak. Or worse, a faker.
But I can’t think about those endless days and nights without the horrible, aching urge to climb out of my skin and flee the reality that a man like that ever laid a finger on me.
Gritting my teeth, I shake my head vigorously, trying to force the memories back.
I don’t have time for this.
I’ve only got a few hours left until the audition. There’s work to do.
Chapter 8
