Ghost (Boston Underworld #3) - A. Zavarelli Page 0,6
on the mattress. He’s broad shouldered and powerful. The type of man with a presence that can’t be ignored. Athletic and toned. A fighter, I think… maybe. Most of Arman’s friends are fat and old, and stink of cigars and vodka. But this one is sharp, both in dress and manner.
He wears a black suede jacket and a gray flat cap atop his head, which casts his face in shadow. I can’t see him, but he can see me. The weight of his examination is heavy, and my pulse responds. I don’t know why. Only that I’m anxious, and I want him to leave.
He doesn’t.
Because he’s here to fuck me. Only, he’s drawing it out. Taking too long. My dissociative fortress is caving in on me. Emotion seeping in. One I haven’t felt since Dmitri’s betrayal.
Anger.
It’s roiling around inside of me, catching my breath and stealing my peace.
I lift my chin and try to meet his gaze. I don’t know this man. But I want him gone. I have rules. I don’t talk. Because I’m afraid what might spill out if I do. The truth I won’t be able to contain. The space inside of my head is the only sanctuary I have. And he’s ruining that. I turn my focus back to the lines on the wall, but I don’t want him to see. I don’t want him to see me counting. Because that’s private. That’s mine.
“Get on with it, will you?” the words snap from my tongue in a harsh cadence, a shock to my ears.
My voice is rusty and foreign. Demented. I sound like an animal. Because I am.
The intruder remains silent. Nothing but silence, for a full minute. I know, because I count every second. And then his deep voice reverberates off the walls, surrounding me.
“Look at me when you speak,” he demands.
I turn my head back towards him slowly, only to find him kneeling in front of me now. Breathing my air, taking up my space. The shadow is gone, and his face is unmasked. Harsh and serious, with the type of blue eyes that can only come from Slavic genes. Ice cold and shocking in their intensity.
It has been many months since fear has held a place in my head or my heart. But the presence of this man stirs it to life again. Pulling me even further from my dissociative state than I’m willing to venture. Not a single one of these men have ever had the audacity to get intimate with me. To get right up in my face and look me in the eyes. I am merely a body with three holes to them, and they make their choice and cause me several minutes of discomfort before it’s all over. But not this one. I don’t know what it is he wants from me. I don’t want to find out either.
The way he is staring at me disturbs me on a different level. He isn’t just looking. He’s seeing. All of my darkest secrets. The part of me that nobody ever gets to see. But he does. My armor means nothing to him.
He is different than Arman. This man scares me more than Arman. He’s too well put together. Too calm. His emotions do not show on his face for all to see. And his hands… they are huge. Heavily tattooed.
I imagine one of those hands around my throat, crushing my windpipe. It would only take one.
“Do not worry.” He brushes the matted hair away from my face in a surprisingly gentle manner. “I’m not going to fuck you.”
There’s a haunted sadness in his eyes. And something else too. A flicker of guilt. It’s a rare emotion in the men who come to visit me. It sets off all of the alarm bells in my head. If he’s not going to fuck me, then I don’t know what he has to be guilty for.
The confusion must be written all over my face, but he doesn’t explain further. Instead, he holds up a packet in his hand and shows it to me. Pain killers. He releases them from the foil and signals for me to open my mouth.
For just a split second, my eyes dart to the left. In the direction of my stash. Where I have every intention of putting these two pills when he leaves the room. So that I can make my seven days a reality, and not eight.
But this stranger is watching me carefully. Too carefully.