“Her name was Darya,” he confesses, his voice barely more than a whisper.
My chest constricts with dread as I ask the next question. “What happened to her?”
“She was brutally raped and murdered.”
Somehow, I already know the answer, but I have to hear it from him. “Who?” I croak.
“Ish.”
AT RAZE’S REVELATION, I FLY into his arms in the tightest embrace possible, wishing . . . hoping . . . praying it’s not true, even though I know it is. He has no reason to lie to me. I don’t need any additional reasons to detest the man I was once married to. But now I have more.
We stand like that—clinging to each other, words unnecessary—for minutes. Maybe hours. I don’t know. I don’t care. If my arms wrapped around him provide even a tiny bit of solace for what he had stolen from him, for the love he lost, then I’ll stand here all night. I feel like I owe it to him.
At some point, we eventually break apart and make our way to the kitchen. Neither of us are ready to discuss everything that’s happened in the last hour, so we keep ourselves busy by unpacking the boxes of supplies, working around each other like we’ve done this hundreds of times.
First, we get all of the cold groceries put away in the refrigerator and freezer. The amount of food he’s ordered concerns me, indicating we’re going to be here for quite some time. I may feel differently about Raze now, but I still want to leave as soon as possible. This is not a life, being confined to a five-hundred-square-foot cabin in the middle of nowhere with no connection to the outside world.
As he puts away the last of the dry goods in the small pantry, I open the next package, only to find myself, once again, shocked at the things he’s had brought in. The entire box is filled with women’s clothes in my size—thermal tops, sweatpants, a pair of jeans, flannel pajamas, and undergarments.
Peering up at him, my jaw falls open and I shake my head incredulously. I don’t know what to say. And he ordered all of this before what happened with that sick freak earlier. I’m not sure who this guy is, but I can admit to myself that it was wrong of me to ever compare him to Ish.
“What? What did I do?” he asks when he notices me staring at him, lifting his eyebrows in his best innocent face.
I don’t even bother fighting the genuine smile that tugs the corners of my mouth up. “You had them bring me clothes?” I phrase it as a question, even though the physical evidence in front of me makes the answer quite clear.
Faintly embarrassed, he shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly. “It’s not that I don’t like seeing you in my shirt every day, but I know you get cold, especially at night. And I know you’re having to hand wash your, um . . . your underwear. I just guessed on the bra size too, so I’m sorry if it’s off.”
His awkwardness discussing this is endearing. I like knowing I can bring up lingerie and make him uncomfortable. It’s not much of a weapon, but I’ll store the knowledge for future use, if necessary.
Glancing down at the tags of the bra, I’m not surprised to find it’s exactly my size. 34C. I lift it up and dangle it in the air, and on cue, he squirms and takes a step backward, away from me. “You did good. Thanks for all of this stuff.”
“I would’ve had them bring you your own stuff, but the feds are crawling all over your apartment complex right now. It wasn’t worth taking the chance,” he explains, his mention of the federal agents searching for me grounding me from my temporary high.
“Yeah.” I nod, feeling my face fall. “Thanks again. You didn’t have to do this.”
“Sure I did. If we’re gonna be here a while, you’ll have to wash that shirt eventually, and unless you want to wear that uncomfortable looking dress you had on at work last Friday, you needed some clothes.”
Wrinkling my nose, I cock my head to the side, puzzled. “My dress from work last Friday?”
He closes the cabinet door and moves toward me. “Yes. The one you had on when you were delivered to me.”
“No, I know what dress,” I clarify. “It’s just the last Friday part that threw me off. What day is it today?”
“It’s Wednesday evening,” he pauses to sneak a peek at his phone, “seven-twenty-three.”
Wow. It feels like I’ve been with Raze much longer than five days. I hate that I’m so unaware of what’s going on that I’ve lost track of the days and time. “Right. Wednesday night.”
Again, with his exemplary perceptiveness, he realizes I need a few minutes alone to come to terms with numerous things. “In the other box, there should be books, magazines, a DVD player, and a bunch of American movies I’ve always wanted to see to keep us from going absolutely stir-crazy in here. Go through it, and anything you want to read or watch, help yourself. I’m going to take a shower and change out of these clothes. I’ll put the toiletries up while I’m in there.”
Not waiting for me to respond, he walks past me, careful not to allow our shoulders to brush against each other’s. But just before the bathroom door closes, I speak out. “Raze.”
He shifts his attention to me. “Yes, girl?”
When I say his name, I have no idea what I am going to say to him. I just can’t let us separate with this weird tension between us.
“What does kotyonok mean?” The words tumble mindlessly from my lips.
A warm chuckle rumbles deep in his chest as he flashes me a boyish grin. “It means kitten,” he replies, shutting the door before I have a chance to respond.
“Wow, this is delicious,” Raze manages in between bites of the homemade cheeseburgers I made while he was in the shower.
Once I realized I didn’t have anywhere to store my new clothes since I was actually living in the living room, I slipped on a pair of sweatpants then left the rest in the box and scooted it to the corner, back behind the couch, where it’d be out of the way. Then, while Raze was still in the shower, I began preparing dinner for the two of us. My way of saying thanks again for everything. Protecting me. Making sure I had what I needed in this shitty situation. Being a decent human being.
“Bacon and ranch,” I divulge my mom’s super-secret recipe for the best cheeseburgers ever.
He eyes his half-eaten burger skeptically and shakes his head. “What? Where? I don’t see any bacon or ranch.”
“It’s mixed inside the meat. I usually fry the bacon fresh and use a packet of the powdered Ranch dip, but I made do with what we had—bottled Ranch dressing and jarred bacon bits. It still tastes pretty damn good.” I smirk as I bite into the greasy, but delicious dinner.
“Careful,” he warns with a teasing tone in his voice. “You may have just won yourself cooking duties while we’re here.”
Rolling my eyes, I toss my paper towel at him. “Uh-uh. I’ve had your omelets. No way I’m letting you off the hook on those. You keep breakfast, and I’ll do dinner. Whoever doesn’t cook is in charge of cleanup.”
“You’re quite the little negotiator. Where did you learn that?” he asks as he begins to work on cheeseburger number two. So much for leftovers for lunch tomorrow.
“My brother, Brandon. We were always swapping out chores and whatnot, covering for each other when we got older,” I answer, surprising myself with my candidness. “What about you? Do you have any siblings?”
He wipes a dribble of grease from his chin with a napkin as he nods. “Like you, I have a younger brother, Ivan. He and I grew up very close, only a year apart in age.”