Page 93 of If I Were Yours

I startle awake, staring into a dark room. Vivid nightmares of intruders and monsters linger at the edges of my mind as I scan the place, my heart beating in my throat.

There’s no one here. I’m alone.

The realization pains me as much as it reassures me.

A sharp sound sends a surge of panic through my body. I bolt up to sit upright, clutching the sheets. The sound returns, right outside the door beside my bed. No,onthe glass. Someone’s knocking. And then a voice. Someone calling.

When the person calls out again, I’m about to leap out of bed, either to grab a knife or flee out the front door.

“Clara, open the door,” it says, the stern tone ringing familiar in my ears.

Carefully leaning forward, I peek behind the curtain and see a tall, lean shape with slightly curly hair on the other side of the glass.

A hand knocks again, and this time the knock reverberates through the glass with a heavy, dull sound—a fist rather than the sharp rap of knuckles.

“Clara, let me in.”

I leap out of bed and shove away the curtain to open the door for Markus. But even though my rational brain knows it’s him, my panic-stricken body refuses to acknowledge it. Instinct has me scrambling back onto the bed as I watch the large figure move in the darkness.

It’s not until light floods the room, revealing Markus’s familiar features, that the adrenaline stops pumping through my veins.

But I still can’t breathe. The relief is as intense as the shock, and I’m gasping for air as my breath works in a frantic rhythm, never reaching my lungs.

My vision blurs, and Markus is a vague figure moving in front of me as he jumps on the bed and gathers me in his arms.

“God, Clara. It’s just me. Breathe, sweetie.”

His familiar scent drifts into my nose, the feeling of safety banding around me as he hugs me tight. Finally, my panic-stricken body catches up. I clutch the lapels of his jacket, clinging to him with all my might as I heave long, staggered breaths.

“That’s it,” he says. “Easy now. I’m here.”

His words are meant to soothe, but I feel the strain behind them—the strain that’s lingered between us for weeks. So his words don’t have the usual effect, and it takes a while before I’m able to fill my lungs without feeling like they’re about to burst.

“Have you eaten anything?” he asks as I finally start to relax against him.

I shake my head, shoving my tangled hair behind my ears. I must look like a mess, barely having combed my hair for days and only having slept in fitful intervals.

He lifts me onto the bed beside him and places a pizza box in my lap. Then he retrieves a soda can from a white plastic bag, pops the lid, and shoves it into my hand. “Drink.”

I take a large gulp, then throw back the entire soda as I realize how badly I need the energy.

Markus opens another soda can and sets it on the nightstand before lifting the pizza lid to reveal a mouthwatering Hawaiian pizza. My favorite.

“Eat,” he orders.

I gobble up the entire pizza like a starved cat. I have barely eaten since I left Berlin, and it’s only now that I feel the consequence.

Markus doesn’t say anything, but I feel his unwavering gaze on me. It’s unnerving. Each time I glance at him, I’m met with a tight expression. But I don’t care. At least not until the pizza is gone and I’m somewhat revitalized.

It’s only when he puts the pizza box away and moves to stand in front of me that I realize just how stern he looks. His mouth is set in a straight line, his jaw clenched behind his short stubble as he fixates on me with a hard stare.

“Take off your clothes and get on your stomach,” he says with a tone that is like a slap to the face.

Like a wave pulling off the shore, his sharp command knocks back the painful emotions that have been harrowing me since I came home. But as quickly as they disappear, they sweep back in, shoving a whimper from my throat and pressing tears into my eyes.

He takes a step closer, his entire countenance darkening. “Do as you’re told.”

“What are you doing, Markus?” I say, desperation straining my voice.

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