His voice is soothing. “Lina, it’s okay.” He keeps his arms outstretched, but he doesn’t grab me. “Come here.”
I shake my head. My blood runs cold. Under the long sleeves, in the heat of the sun, I shiver. This is because of the scars. Last night, he pretended they were nothing. I should’ve known better. I should’ve known he’d use the knowledge of them against me.
“Lina.”
The way in which he says my name is a command, but it’s an order I can’t obey.
Damian slowly takes a step, as if he’s stalking an injured animal. “It’s for your own good.”
That’s what Harold said. That’s what the doctors who tortured me said. That’s what the nurses who looked away as it was happening said.
“None of this is for my good,” I whisper.
“Come to me, Lina. Now.”
Why does he sound scared? That’s not right. Damian is never scared. Me, I’m terrified.
“I’m counting to three,” he says in that tone he used in the study.
There’s nothing he can do to make me walk willingly into his arms. All the spankings and humiliations in the world are not enough to make me hand myself over to a fate that paralyses my body and dulls my mind but doesn’t let me ignore the leather straps that fasten my arms and legs to a cot while hunger ravishes me and my thirst-cracked lips mumble useless pleas while the man in the overcoat sticks another needle in my arm.
Chills run over me. “No,” I say, like I’ve said so many times in my life. Never willingly.
I roll on the balls of my feet, already feeling the flight in my veins. This isn’t a game. This isn’t a small rebellion of words he’ll let me get away with.
His hands, the strong ones that can chop off fingers or throw a car into gear with the confidence of a man who knows where’s he’s going, a man with secret destinations, those hands ball into fists. “Angelina.”
Everything inside me screams no as I take off, heading straight into the oncoming traffic.
Chapter 9
Damian
Fear is a foreign sentiment. That foreignness hits me head-on in the gut with no preamble or gradual introduction as my wife tears away from the pavement, throwing her body into the flow of traffic, double lanes, bus in the farthest one.
The first car swerves, barely missing Lina as she dodges a second and continues toward the lane where the bus is approaching too fast. Facts blur in my mind, the speed of the bus, the driver who’s checking his phone, the distance to the pavement. Terror cripples me. It’s like in my childhood nightmares. My feet won’t move fast enough.
Tires screech. Horns blare. Shouting. Swearing.
I fly through the air, tackling the fleeing woman with the full weight of my body. We go down to the tarmac. I try to soften her fall with my arms, but they’re not enough to absorb all the shock. Her bones rattle, her hip hitting the hard surface with a clack. Using the momentum of our fall, I roll us to the curb. The bus slows but doesn’t stop. It rolls by, the driver gaping at us through the window. Another flick of our bodies, a roll, and we’re on the pavement. Only then do I breathe again.
Lina lies underneath me on her back, her bag pressing into my stomach. Her eyes are wide, her pupils shot. It only takes a second before she starts fighting me like a rabid lioness. Pedestrians flow around us, parting like the sea for Moses. They look, but nobody reacts. In a city of violence, no one is brave enough to get involved. The chances of getting killed are too high.
Sitting up, I straddle her hips and pin her wrists above her head. “Lina.” She kicks and screams, thrusting her hips. “Lina,” I say louder. “Look at me.”
At my stern tone, she stills. “Look into my eyes.” She obliges, appearing high on shock. “Do I lie?” When she doesn’t answer, I squeeze her wrists. “Do I bluff?”
“No,” she croaks.
“I won’t let anyone hurt you.” I wait for the words to sink in. “Isn’t that what I promised?”
She gives a meek shake of her head. “Not the clinic.”
I repeat the assurance slowly. “I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”
Defeat brims with the tears in her eyes.
“We’re going inside together.” I loosen my grip marginally. “Are you going to behave?”
She looks on the verge of sobbing but nods once.
“Good.” Slowly, I let go of her arms, but I don’t lift my weight off her hips.
The minute her hands are free, she fists them into the lapels of my jacket. “Please, Damian.” Her tears start flowing freely. “Don’t make me stay here.”
Her begging shakes me more than what I already am. It’s not like her to plead.
“Shh.” I wipe my thumbs over her cheeks, catching her tears. “I’m not going to leave you.”