“Us?” I prodded.
I wanted to hear her talk about me. See what was still in her head. If time had healed anything.
But she just stayed quiet, not elaborating any further.
“So was that red?” she asked, changing the subject.
Red?
Oh, right. The night of the motorcycle ride. She wanted to know what red felt like.
I scoffed. “Maybe like orange.”
“Orange?” She looked appalled. “Can it at least be purple?”
I laughed under my breath, walking over to her and taking the wash cloth off of her. “Purple then.”
I helped her to her feet, so we could get her clean, and she found her way under the water wetting her hair.
“When can I see red?” she asked.
And I planted my hand on the wall, holding her face with the other one, as I stared down at her and saw all the shit that was going to eventually hit the fucking fan.
When you find out who just fucked you, you’re gonna see plenty of red then.
Winter
Present
“Mikhail?” I called, trailing down the hallway.
I’d woken up, hearing his nails clicking on the hardwood floor.
Music played in the house, and I could hear some people downstairs, moving freely, as well as cars driving up to the house. What was going on?
After the bath, I’d locked my door, slipped on some clothes, dried my hair, and repacked my escape bag, counting my money again and making a mental list of where I could go, just in case. I knew I wouldn’t run, because that would put others at risk, but I needed something to keep myself occupied.
And then stupidly, I’d fallen asleep, the worry, the fright from this morning, and the bathtub making me crawl into a ball on my bed and sink far away.
I needed another plan. One, I thought, that involved Damon’s old friends. They could stop him.
They would stop him for me.
“Mikhail?” I said louder.
My phone was still downstairs—hopefully fully charged, given that it was almost eight at night—but I heard a whine and veered into my father’s room, instead.
I heard the faucet run in the master bath, but I didn’t give a shit if Damon was in there or not.
“Mikhail.”
My dog’s wet nose hit my leg, and he breathed happily, licking my fingers.
I knelt down, smiling and relieved. “Hey.” I petted and hugged him, the dreariness of the last couple of days gone all of a sudden.
Thank you, thank you, thank you…
I’d been pretty sure Damon wouldn’t have taken him out and had him shot, but tears sprang to my eyes, so happy he wasn’t gone for good.
“Why were you in here?” I scolded in a playful tone, taking his collar in my hand and standing up. “Stay away from him, boy.”
“Ke nighg-ya,” an order came from the bathroom, Russian again.
Mikhail pulled out of my grasp and ran away, the nails of his paws tapping against the bathroom tiles.
“Mikhail?” I said sterner.
“The dog was a mistake,” Damon said. “He won’t protect you from me. I know how to handle him. I know how to get things to obey me.”
“Give him to me.”
“Sure,” he chirped. “Take him. If you can.”
“Mikhail,” I demanded, tapping my leg. “Mikhail, come here!”
But my dog didn’t move, not a single jingle from his leash or sound of his nails.
My chin trembled, but I refused to cry.
But before I got a chance to spin around and walk away, Damon grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the bathroom. I resisted, trying to pull away and noticing he was only in a towel as he pressed me against the sink and shoved a long piece of metal in my hands.
“What is this?” I asked as he wrapped his fist around mine, forcing me to hold it.
The scent of shaving cream filled the space, and the steam of his shower crawled into my pores.
“Do you want to know how I control him?” Damon asked.
I didn’t give a shit…
“Food,” he explained. “Most animals, including humans, can be controlled by a system of consequences and rewards.”
Something hit the ground, I heard Mikhail move, and his jaws yapped as he ate whatever Damon tossed him.
“We want to eat, so we do what we need to in order to be fed,” he said. “And all animals have that in common. They can’t synthesize their own nourishment, so they easily become subject to whoever provides it. It’s how animals are domesticated. How humans can be enslaved in soul-draining jobs and relationships.” He leaned in, his breath wafting over my face. “We all need to eat, Winter.”
I jerked my head, trying to pull away from him again.
“And humans are complex,” he went on. “More than just our stomachs need to be fed.”
He raised my hand, and whatever was in it, to his face, and even though I gritted my teeth, trying to pull away, he forced it against his skin and glided it up his neck to his jaw. He forced my hand, and I stopped fighting as it grated against his stubble. Then he lowered my hand to the sink behind me, rinsing it clean.
A razor. A straight razor. I brought up my other hand, carefully feeling the object in my hand. Cool and metal, the blade was smooth and sharp, while the handle featured filigree etchings, making for an easier grip. Was it an antique? No one used these anymore.
He lifted me up and planted my ass on the counter, his hand on both sides of me.
“Keep going,” he said in a low voice.
Keep going? Did he want to die today? Or did he think I wouldn’t use this on him?
“Why?” I asked him. “So you can prove how well I can do what I’m told? Like a dog?” I put my free hand on his chest, trying to keep him from getting too close. “I don’t need you to feed me.”
“Maybe I need you to feed me.”
What did that mean?
“Do it,” he urged.
I held the blade, liking how easily the handle fit in my fist, and loving how he was right in front of me, putting a weapon in my hand, and this could all end now.
Did he trust me? Or did he think he could stop me in time?
He was definitely testing me. Seeing how much I did or didn’t hate him.
And he was willing to put himself in danger to find out.
All of a sudden, I felt like I did the night I drove his car all those years ago.
Like I was dangerous.
“I’ll cut you,” I warned him.
“Yeah.”
“And if I slit your throat?”
He breathed a laugh. “My kind of fun has a price, remember?”
I stopped breathing for a moment, remembering those words. Remembering that he was him. My ghost. The one I kissed and made love to.
At first those words had filled me with dread, because it meant he’d had no limit. Then they excited me, because I wanted adventures with the boy I thought I loved.
I brought my free hand up and gripped his face, tipping it back and keeping it still. Then I drifted my fingers down his neck, feeling where the skin was smooth and already shaven and where the shaving cream still sat.
“Come in, closer,” I told him.
He did, forcing me to spread my legs as his fingers brushed the outside of my thighs, bare in my sleep shorts. I ignored the goosebumps that spread over my skin.
Bringing the blade up slowly, I felt his chest start to rise and cave with shallow breaths, and I damn near smiled, because, if even just a little, he was nervous.
Finding the position with my thumb, I put the blade to his skin and pressed, increasing the pressure just a little more than I should have and feeling him suck in a breath.
It was his turn to be scared.
I let it sit there for a moment, feeling the air grow thick between us as he waited for what I was going to do with the blade pressed to his neck. Were his eyes cast down on me, watching me? Was he waiting for it? Was he ready for it?
I held it there for another moment and then…glided the blade up his neck, shaving it.
He held his breath for a moment and then exhaled softly as the blade left his neck.
Running my fingers over the strip I just shaved, I felt smooth skin. Skin I’d had my lips on when I’d thought he was someone else.