I’m so angry I charge at him, wrestle the bottle from him and smash it against the far wall. The sound is strangely satisfying. Making me feel in control, powerful. At least for a split second.
“You fucking jerk!” I slam my hands hard enough into his chest to almost budge him. “I was almost back! It’s not fair!”
He captures my wrists and holds my arms at my sides. “Fair? What the fuck are you talking about? Don’t you get it? You’re not going back. I’m taking you home. Don’t you want to go home?”
“Home?” Now it’s me who can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. “What home do you think you’re taking me to exactly? I have no home. Don’t you get it?” He loosens his grip and I slip my wrists free. Tears burn my eyes. “You’re just making it worse.” My voice breaks but I scrub my eyes and steel my spine. “I’m leaving!” I spin on my heel and walk toward the door.
“Leaving?” he snorts. “Like hell you are!” His steps are heavy behind me.
I close my hand over the doorknob, turn it, open it. In the same instant his big hand is flat against the door over my head, pushing it closed before I get it all the way open. He turns the key in the lock then pockets it before leaning down close to me. So close, I can feel the heat coming off him, smell his aftershave. It makes me shudder, makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. And it puts my body on high alert.
Because when he’s this close, something happens to my insides.
“You’re not going anywhere without my say so,” he says and my breath catches. His voice is low, a vibration against my skin sending a chill down my spine. “Understand that.”
When I can breathe again, I slowly turn to face him. He’s so close that all I see is him. All I breathe is him, his big body in front of me, arms caging me in. My heart is racing, my stomach in knots as I force myself to look up at him. But I can’t keep eye contact. Can’t take how his gaze is drilling into me.
I turn away. Force myself to think. To not feel what it is I’m feeling. I need to steel myself against him.
“I’m going,” I say to his chest, my tone somehow firm in spite of my quaking insides. It’s not fear exactly, though. Fear has a different texture. A different smell.
He gives me a one-sided grin like he’s humoring me. I set my palms against his wall of a chest, trying to shove him away but it’s impossible to budge him.
I need to get out.
I slide my hands up to his shoulders feeling the contour of powerful muscle beneath and strangely, I find myself lingering, curious. I shift my gaze to his broad chest, to my hands small on the wide expanse of his shoulders. My heart pounds against my chest and I lick my lips before shifting my gaze back to his and I wonder if he can hear my heart beating.
But when his expression changes, the way he looks at me different, I catch myself.
What am I doing? I need to get out.
He clears his throat and nods and I swear he looks like he’s about to call me a good girl but that’s not what this is. I’m not his good girl. I’m not anyone’s good girl. I never was, not for any of them.
Instead, I grip his shoulders and jerk my knee up between his legs, ramming it into his groin.
He grunts, hunching forward. It hurts, I see it on his face. Feel it in the tight barely controlled grip of his hands when they close over my shoulders, pinning me to the door as he manages the pain.
“Christ. Fuck,” he mutters, breathing hard. He draws one hand into a fist, and I think this is it. He’s going to hit me.
I let out a pathetic whimper, all my bravado gone. I curl into myself, tuck my chin, cover my ears with my hands and keep my arms tight to my torso to protect my stomach. But the hit doesn’t come. No slap. No punch to my temple or my belly. Just that fist slamming into the door above my head, rattling it in its hinges.
“I’m not going to hit you,” he says through clenched teeth, voice like sandpaper.
It’s a trick. He’s waiting until he can see my face. Watch me when he hurts me.
“Look at me,” he commands.
I hope it’s a slap. Fists hurt more than flat hands. But I can’t bring myself to look up. To just get it over with.
“I said look at me.”
I shake my head.
“I’m not going to hit you. I wouldn’t. Ever. Just look at me.”
I still don’t.
“Please, Mara.”
His tone twists something inside me and before I can stop myself, I shift my gaze. I look up at him, confused, off balance. Unsure what to do. I shouldn’t have hurt him, but I’m confused by my reaction to him. That feeling in my stomach when he’s close like this. When he’s looking at me like this. Confused that he won’t hit me. Won’t make me fight him. It’s what I know. It’s what I can do. I’ll lose. That’s a fact. I always lose. But fighting helps. Like I’m not just giving it to them. Like I’m not complicit in my captivity.
“Don’t fucking do that again, understand?” he says.
That’s it? Just that? I need him to fight me. Doesn’t he get it? This other thing, this other way he is, I can’t make sense of it. So, I curl my hands into claws and scratch down both sides of his face. I scream like some wild animal as I do, forcing him to hurt me back. Needing him to.
He curses under his breath and grips my hands, pulling them away. My fingernails are bloody and his grip is tighter than it’s been. Red lines form on his cheeks and I know they sting. Still, all he does is look at me like he pities me. Like I’m some pathetic thing to be pitied and I can’t stand it.
“Fight me!” I scream. “Fight me like a man!”
“I know the kind of men you’ve been around, but let me tell you something,” he starts, pulling my wrists behind my back. “Men don’t fight women. They don’t hit women.” He releases me and looks me over. “Go inside and get out of those wet things.”
That’s it? I turn around to try the door again, but it’s locked. He has the key which is why he’s not bothering to stop me.
“Let me out of here!”
“So you can go back to Petrov?”
“Yes!”
“That’s not happening. That’s never happening. He will never get his hands on you again. I’m taking you home.”
Home. God. There it is again.
“Don’t you remember your home?” he asks.
“I told you. I don’t have a home.”
“Yes, you do. With a grandmother who loves you. Who wants you back. With people who care about you.”
I shake my head, cover my ears to try to tune out his words. I can’t hear this. I don’t want to remember this. I can handle anything else. Beatings. Their hands on me. But this is too hard. Because this reminds me of everything and everyone I lost. The life that was stolen before I had a chance to live it.
“That was the last of my whiskey,” he says then, gesturing to the smashed remnants of the bottle.
“Punish me then.” I try because I need him to. I need him to hurt me because if he hurts me then I know where we stand. I understand that. In a way, I understand pain.
His forehead wrinkles and he studies me. I wonder what he sees. If he’s reading my mind.