“What are you afraid of?”
“Everything,” I whispered, trailing my finger across the starched collar of his dress shirt.
“You’re not afraid of me.” We were so close his cheek brushed my tear-streaked one when he rasped, “And, baby, I’m worse than the dark.”
Maybe that was why I felt safe from it now.
He was so warm and solid, and he smelled so irresistible, I couldn’t stop myself from dragging my face down his neck and making a soft noise of approval. Maybe I was courting the devil, though no one had ever warned me the devil would feel so good.
Tension rolled through him. His fingers laced through my hair at the small of my back, his voice hoarse. “Tell me who hurt you, Gianna.”
I didn’t even blink that he knew. Of course, he did. Give the man two sticks and tell him to make a boat with them, and he could.
I couldn’t deny him an answer. Not now, without an ounce of fight in me. With my body against his, and his smell everywhere. Not in the dark, with his arms around me and his voice in my ear.
“A family friend,” I said.
“Is he still alive?”
“No. He died when I was fourteen. Natural causes, unfortunately—no torture involved.” My fingers played with the ends of his hair above his collar.
“Shame,” he said softly, but a hint of vehemence showed through. “Tell me what he did to you, malyshka.”
I swallowed. I’d never told anyone but Sydney and my therapist. Talking about it felt like reliving it, but now, there wasn’t a possibility of the memories coming back to haunt me. Not with this man nearby. They wouldn’t dare.
“He came to my room when my papà had company. He wanted to play games with me . . . wanted me to sing for him. He touched me. My face, my hair, my . . . everywhere. But only after the lights were off. I don’t think he liked to see what he was doing. Guilty conscience, I suppose.”
His posture remained unmoved but something dark rumbled beneath the surface. “Did your father know?”
“He told me my papà knew, but . . . I don’t know. Papà never let on that he did, though I’ve always wondered.”
“Why?”
I lifted a shoulder. “His favorite name for me growing up was Whore, even though I was a virgin until I got married. My mamma had an affair before I was born, and we’ll just say, I became the target of his rage. He always claimed I wasn’t his. Maybe I’m not.” My words were quiet, wistful. “When he found out my fear of the dark, he didn’t hesitate to use it against me. And here I am now, the healthiest, most put-together woman you’ll ever meet.”
He wasn’t amused at my sarcasm. “Look at me, Gianna.”
I did.
“We have a saying in Russia. S volkámi zhit’, po-vo´lch’i vyt’. Say it.”
I butchered it. A corner of his lips lifted, but he walked me through it until it sounded somewhat intelligible.
“It means, to live with wolves, you have to howl like a wolf.”
Is that what you did? I wanted to ask, but somehow knew it wouldn’t be well received.
“You’ve got to learn how to howl, malyshka. To tell your demons to fuck off. We all know you have it in you; you tell me to enough. And unlike your demons”—his voice darkened—“I can actually bite you.”
I shivered. “I think you just wanted me to speak your heathen language.”
He didn’t agree, but the thumb he ran across a tear-track on my cheek said more than words ever could. “Worst Russian I’ve ever heard.”
I feigned a frown. “Bummer. I was hoping not to be mistaken for a tourist when I visit Moscow next summer.”
He didn’t believe me. “You’re not going to Moscow.”
“Why not?”