Page 85 of Wilt

As I walk out my door, the whole place has an abandoned feel. Except for my room. That felt so alive and real and full of him.

Slowly, I search, wandering into rooms, into his where the candles are blown out but his clothes are tangled on the floor and the sheets ripped up and a mess.

It makes me smile.

Maybe… If this was normal, I’d say he went to get us food and me flowers. But it isn’t normal, so maybe he had work.

Leaving his room, I continue heading down the stairs. I falter at the bottom step, staring across the foyer to the front door.

It’s open.

Wide open.

That’s odd…

I walk on shaky legs to it and peer outside. It’s a cloudy day, cool, and I don’t see anyone. It seems like I’m alone.

I could run. Escape.

The thought jolts me. I don’t expect it from my own mind, and that’s confusing in itself.

Escape?

I should. As weird as my time with Nikolai has been, I am his prisoner. He kidnapped me.

I have to remember that. So, if I see a chance to run out of here, I should take it. I should get to the nearest police station or find a phone to call—

But, Nikolai…

Why do I care?

DoI care?

My head pounds. I don’t understand why I’m so conflicted about this. It should be the easiest decision in the world.

Instead, I backpedal away from salvation, leaving the door open. What would Mom say if she were here?

Besides the nasty scolding I’m sure I would get, she’d probably say that I needed to be smart about this. To remember our games and to try and think beyond what I can see. Things may not be as easy as they appear.

Like the door—weird that it’s open and that the alarm is off. No guards or Nikolai in sight.

Is it a test or a trap or… did something happen?

Panic grips me suddenly, and I’m breathing rapidly at the thought of Nikolai being hurt. Laying somewhere bleeding out. He has enemies—deadly ones. What if…

The gruesome images in my head make me walk deeper into the house.

“Nikolai?” I call out his name, voice shaking. “Nikolai? Are you home?”

I begin to search but find the main floor is full of locked doors, like his study, the library, the sitting room. Only the dining room is open so I go in, looking about, my anxiety growing with every second.

“Hello? Anyone? Nikolai?”

I stop and swallow. The shaking has taken over and I don’t know what to do. I’m stiff and sore in what feels like the best way, but right now, that fades to give room to growing fears.

The soreness that reminds me of him and what we did and the kind of muscles I don’t use give me a strange comfort, something to cling to in amongst the rising fear.

If I can still feel him on me, in me, then I’m okay. I’m—

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