hands felt the silk I knew it was expensive. Somehow I knew it wasn’t mine.
Needing to find out where I was, I pushed myself to stand up. As I scanned the room, I walked toward the window. I stayed to the side of the large pane but took a peek through the drape to see a busy street below me. I was up high; the building I was in stood tall compared to its surroundings.
Dropping the drape, I stood back. In front of me, across the room was a door, light spilling out underneath.
My feet moved me across the hardwood floor. I opened the door, making sure I did it silently. A large ornate hallway lay beyond the door. I stepped out, immediately searching left to right.
I listened for any sign of life; to my left I heard the murmur of low voices. Running my fingers through my hair to calm my nerves, I slowly walked forward, my eyes widening at the tall ceilings and old pictures hanging on the walls.
My skin crawled at the unfamiliarity of such richness. I pushed my mind again to remember something, an ache at the back of my head telling me that I had to remember something important. But no matter how hard I tried, nothing sprang into my mind.
I reached a room; the door was open and voices came through. My heart initially raced when I realized the people were speaking Russian. Fear spiked down my spine, and I spun on my heel to flee, but I heard a deep voice that froze me mid-motion.
My head cocked to the side to listen harder. The voice was speaking in Russian, but it held an accent, an accent that sounded familiar to me. I couldn’t place the person, but instinct and a lightness in my heart prompted me to walk to the doorway.
I peered down at my hand, only to see it shaking. Tears pricked in my eyes, and I squeezed them shut, unsure why I was overcome with such emotion. The voices grew louder, many people contributing to the conversation. On a deep inhale, I edged through the door. This room was massive, dripping with expensive decoration. I padded silently along the floor, until the room turned to feature a living area. I stopped dead when I saw four people sitting on couches—the source of the conversation. All seemed young. One couch faced a huge roaring fireplace; a large blond man with his arm around a brown-haired woman at on its plush cushions. My pulse quickened, but no recognition came.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t move when my eyes fell upon the couple with their backs to me. A blond woman rested her head on an olive-skinned man’s arm. His large back was covered in a white T-shirt the material of which was severely tested by his muscles. His black hair was tied back in a messy bun at the top of his head. For some reason my lungs ceased to function as I stared at him.
My body was rooted to the spot. I feared I would never be able to move. Perhaps sensing me, the blond woman leaning on the dark man turned her head. Brown eyes collided with mine. She froze. I stared at her and she stared at me. Something inside of me cooled as her lips parted. I couldn’t remember why, but something inside told me I was not meant to like her. My mind was filled with a thick fog. I was struggling to organize my thoughts, to put anything into the correct place.
The man beside her turned to the blonde. The blonde, seeing him move, laid her hand on his arm. The man stared at her, his sharply defined profile coming into view. But he didn’t look back toward me. The blond woman rubbed at his arm and his back stiffened. His head fell forward and his hands ran through his hair. I watched his every movement; the burning in my chest increased, nerves racked my body, as I waited for him to look my way.
I blew out a shaky breath, but that was cut off when the man suddenly launched to his feet. My eyes widened at his sheer height and massive build. His hands opened and closed at his sides. Then, as if in slow motion, he turned. I watched with bated breath as he finally faced me.
His eyes were down, long black lashes pressed to his cheek. On another breath, his eyes fluttered open, his bright