“Whatever you feel . . . that’s okay. There’s no timeline for when you should feel better. Everyone’s experience is unique.”
Shame, guilt, confusion, fear—those were all emotions she experienced daily. She was beginning to fear that her timeline of healing would take several years.
Unable to lie in bed any longer, she got up and removed Dimitri’s shirt and changed into her new clothes. She was going to pay him back for the stuff he’d purchased today, but not until she figured out how to do it sneakily.
She found him downstairs, lounging on the leather couch, one arm draped over the back of the sectional as he watched the local news. He was utterly still as she came around to stand in front of the TV to block his view.
For a second she was distracted by the things she knew about him now, the things she shouldn’t know—how it felt to be in his arms, his lips pressed to hers, the energy of his kiss and the sweet desperation of how he’d needed to show her he was protecting her, shielding her from the things in the world that would hurt her, just like a Dom would his submissive.
No, she couldn’t go there, couldn’t let herself get distracted by such dangerous thoughts. That was a life she would never have, a relationship she would never have.
“We have to talk,” she said.
He muted the TV, his eyes never leaving her face. “Come. Sit.” He patted the chaise longue part of the sectional beside him, but she shook her head. She needed to stand, needed to feel some power while she said what she had to say.
“I deserve the truth.”
“The truth,” he echoed softly.
“Yes. Who the hell are you, and why do you care about me if you aren’t here because Royce asked you to be? If you know about Vadym, what’s your connection to him?”
He leaned forward, his forearms braced on his knees. His pose seemed almost penitent. He threaded his fingers together.
“My name is Dimitri Razin—that wasn’t a lie. I know about Vadym because he has is well known in some circles for what he does to young women. I’ve been working with my friends to stop him. I care about you because of who you are. You deserve happiness. You need to have someone with you who understands at least in some small way what you’ve endured.” His accent was slightly thicker now and rough with seriousness.
Her heart fluttered with dread and sudden realization. Vadym probably already had another girl by now, someone new to torture and hurt. Her stomach knotted, and she fought the urge to throw up.
“He might already have someone else. Didn’t you think about that? Forget me. You need to go back to Moscow and stop him.”
Why hadn’t she thought of this before? Why? She’d been so buried in her own wallowing pity she hadn’t thought of the victims who would come after she’d escaped.
Dimitri held up a hand, silencing her panicked words.
“There will not be another girl for him ever again.” The hardness of his eyes confused her. How could Dimitri possibly know that? Vadym was addicted to pain and death. He wouldn’t stop hurting and killing girls.
“I wasn’t his first, and I know I won’t be his last.”
“You are the last, because Vadym is dead.”
Vadym is dead.
The words rattled around inside her head, which had suddenly emptied of all other thoughts but that one. Vadym . . . was dead.
“You can’t know . . . can you?”
He stood up and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed a number. Then he spoke softly in Russian before he put the phone on speaker.
“Leo, she is listening. Please give me access to the video feed and morgue photos.”
“Just a moment,” a deep, masculine Russian-accented voice said.
Dimitri motioned for her to come into the kitchen. He removed his laptop from his briefcase and turned it on. While he logged on to a secure website, she hovered beside him, shock still clouding her mind.
“You have access,” the man on the phone said.
“Thank you, Leo.” Dimitri ended the call, then pulled up a new screen. There were a few pictures and a video file. He clicked on the video, and the screen was filled with a black-and-white but crystal-clear recording.
Vadym was eating at a restaurant with two of his men when suddenly he clutched at his throat and toppled out of his chair. He writhed in agony for nearly a full minute before he went still. The men who’d rushed toward him finally stopped trying to help him. He appeared unresponsive. The video ended, and Dimitri opened up each of the pictures, which showed a pale, lifeless Vadym on a mortuary slab. The pictures had been taken at various angles, allowing for a detailed look at his body. There was a deep red wound in his chest that had no blood around it. She’d watched enough true-crime shows to know that the wound had been inflicted postmortem.
“What is that?” she whispered and pointed at the spot.
“That is where Maxim drove a seven-inch blade into the bastard just to be sure he was dead.”
“Who is Maxim?”
“Someone who is like a brother to me. Vadym took Maxim’s little sister two years ago, and we don’t know if she’s dead or alive. That is why I care. That is why I’m here. And that is why he is dead.”
“You couldn’t help her, but you thought you could help me?” She trembled as the reality of Vadym being dead created an equally violent reaction inside her as it had when Dimitri had shown her the photos.
“Yes,” he said. “I was in the embassy in Ulaanbaatar that day you, Royce, and Kenzie were saved. Once I learned what happened to you, I told Royce I needed to help you.”
“How can you help me?” Tears started to burn her eyes. “No one helps this sort of thing. It’s all just so fucked up. I’m fucked up.” She covered her
