Chapter 5
471 Words
5Yulia
I run down the hallway, my bare feet silent on the carpet. Betrayal is a bitter, oily slime coating my tongue.
Fool. i***t. Dura. Debilka. I castigate myself in two languages, unable to find enough words to cover my stupidity. How could I have trusted Lucas for even a second? I know what he wants from me, but I still gave in to that stupid longing, to fantasies that should’ve died out the moment I realized he was alive.
The man I dreamed about in prison has never been anything but a figment of my imagination.
The interrogation technique he used on me is beyond basic. Step one: Get close to your enemy and understand what makes her tick. Step two: Lend a sympathetic ear and pretend like you care. It’s the oldest trick in the book, and I fell for it.
I had been so starved for human warmth I let an enemy see into my soul.
“Yulia!” I can hear Lucas running after me, but I’m already by the bathroom. Darting in, I close the door and lock it, then lean against it, hoping to keep him from breaking it down for at least a few moments.
“Yulia!” He bangs his fist on the door, and I feel it shaking, echoing the quaking of my body. I feel cold again, the chill from the nightmare returning. Why did I tell Lucas about Kirill? I never trusted anyone but the agency therapist with the full story. Obenko knew, of course—he was the one who ordered the hit on Kirill—but I never spoke about it with him.
Outside mandated therapy sessions, I never spoke about it with anyone until Lucas.
“Yulia, open this door.” He stops banging, his tone turning calm and cajoling. “Come out, and we’ll talk.”
Talk? I want to laugh, but I’m afraid it’ll come out as a sob. When I was first recruited, the agency therapist expressed a concern that I wouldn’t be sufficiently detached for the job, that losing my family at a young age made me susceptible to emotional manipulation. It was a weakness I’ve worked hard to overcome, but apparently not hard enough.
A tender touch, a show of anger on my behalf, and I turned to putty in Lucas Kent’s hands.
“Yulia, there’s nothing in that room for you. Come out, sweetheart. I won’t do anything to you, I promise.”
Sweetheart? A spark of anger ignites in me, chasing away some of the icy chill. How much of an i***t does he think I am?
Stepping back, I turn and unlock the door. Lucas is right: there’s nothing in this bathroom for me but self-recriminations and bitterness. I can’t change what happened. I can’t take back the fact that I trusted a man who desires nothing more than revenge.
What I can do, however, is turn the tables.
When the door opens, I look up at Lucas and let the tears stinging my eyes finally fall.
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