Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 100716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Before I can utter a syllable, the elevator doors I begged to miraculously open only minutes ago finally do, exposing both the man of the hour and the man I am almost certain maimed for me.
44
ARKADIY
She knows.
One glance into Mara’s pretty eyes exposes everything.
She knows what I did and how far I will go to protect her. She knows my deepest, darkest secret that has nothing to do with my childhood, and everything to do with ensuring her daughter wasn’t forced to walk down the same dark corridor we were dragged down when we were children.
She knows, and I am as relieved as I am scared.
I take a moment to try to determine the cause of the groove between Mara’s dark brows—is it fear or relief?—before I shut down the personal side of my head and rule with the power I once craved as much as I now do Mara’s touch.
With a click of my fingers, I demand security to my side. “Please escort Mrs. Babkin from the premises. If she attempts re-entry, contact Myasnikov PD to advise them a civilian is impersonating an officer of the law.”
Sanya’s lips twist wryly but she remains quiet, aware she has no ruling here. She doesn’t in the Trudny District anymore, either. She just fails to exert that she was let go from her position if it gets her foot in the door. I only found out when she pushed me so hard I had no choice but to shove back.
Charges are close to being filed.
It won’t be my name on the arrest warrant. Yet.
Once Sanya is walked through the side entrance of the lobby, I shift my focus back to Mara. My heart is pounding, and my palms are drenched with sweat. I want to rush to her, to wipe away the tears on her cheeks, but I can’t get my feet to move.
What if she pulls away?
What is she’s so frightened of the monster I’ve become that she stammers while speaking to me?
God, please don’t let her stutter.
It will kill me to know she fears me. That’s why I pulled back. Just the thought of her being scared of me had me willing to serve life behind bars… or worse, a life without her in it.
I won’t survive knowing she’s frightened of me.
The shutter of cameras clicking draws me out of my stupor. Almost robotically, I push the call button on the elevator and gesture for Mara and Tillie to enter when the doors ding open.
I hold my breath when their feet remain rooted on the glossy marble floor, praying Mara still feels safe enough in my presence to enter the small confines of an elevator with me.
She stares at me, unmoving and unspeaking. Then, just as my lungs are about to scream for air, she unsteadily steps forward.
I snap my eyes shut and suck in the scent of her shampoo before following her inside the elevator. It kills me, but I stand at the far right of the car, giving her the space I’m confident she needs to feel safe in my presence.
I am the monster my mother warned I would become. But only because it was the only way I could keep them safe.
When we reach my apartment, we move through the motions similar to the ones we undertook last week when she was attacked. But this time, with Tillie’s inclusion, we add additional steps I haven’t undertaken since Karolina’s suicide.
We make popcorn and start up the short-throw projector before selecting a channel I had installed when I had the deed of my apartment placed in Mara’s name.
Tillie can feel the tension—it is too blistering to ignore—but after a brief hug with her mother and a quick smirk of encouragement flashed my way, she settles onto the sofa to watch one of her favorite Australian television programs and nervously nibble on her fingernails.
I dip my chin in thanks to Riley when she slips into the living room as Mara and I exit it.
Our steps to my third-floor office are done in silence. I won’t lie. The quiet is killing me. It is so eerily similar to the lack of noise that projected from the bathroom Karolina had entered to wash off the tearstains our stepfather’s sentencing had caused her cheeks.
The slash marks on her wrists when I found her made it obvious that she had been crying.
The truth hangs heavily between Mara and me when we enter my office. I leave the doors wide open, uncaring that my confession may be overheard.
I have every intention of handing myself in. I just can’t do that until I’m confident Mara is safe—both physically and emotionally.
The wayward revenge plot concocted by Dr. Babkin’s wife, who was left with next to nothing when her husband’s victims sued his estate in a civil suit, is compromising her safety.