The Enemy in My Bed by L.K. Shaw
Chapter 7
Mila
It’s beencountless hours since Death left, and I still haven’t moved from my spot on the couch. My mind is frozen on the last words he spoke before he’d risen to his feet and discarded the trash from the dressings he’d used to wrap my wrists. Then he’d walked out the front door without another word or even a glance over his shoulder. As though he hadn’t just thrown me into a panicked tailspin.
“It won’t be rape.”
The thing that scares me the most about Death’s words is that I don’t know if he’s wrong. This change in him—bringing me food, feeding me, gently tending my wounds—it’s the kindest anyone has ever been to me. No one has taken care of me like that before. A self-deprecating laugh bubbles up from my chest. How fucking sad is that?
I should be focusing on the fact that he kidnapped me and tied me to a chair. He purposely left me in the dark—the thing that terrifies me more than anything—because he saw it bothers me. Then he humiliated me by making me pee over a drain, for god’s sake, and nearly stripped off all my clothes.
Instead, all I keep seeing is his appalled reaction to what had been done to me. It…softened him somehow. He actually left me alone to shower after seeing my scars. I rub my hand over my arm. If I close my eyes and concentrate, I can still feel how my skin sparked with electricity at his touch. I enjoyed it far too much.
I’m not fooling myself into thinking that he actually cares. But for some reason it eases my fears that, regardless of whatever else he might do to me, he’s nothing like Maksim.
God, I am so fucked in the head.
Shaking myself out of these crazy thoughts, I rise from the couch. Death said there was no way for me to get out of this house, but surely there’s some way. A door that isn’t locked or maybe a window someone forgot about. There’s a kitchen. Maybe I can find a knife. I swallow the bile back. Could I really stab someone? Even if it meant getting away?
I cross the large living area—one that’s nearly as big as my entire apartment—into the gorgeous kitchen. A room I’ve always felt at home in. Making various dishes for Anya and me while our mother had been out doing god knows what. My fingers glide along the stainless steel handle of the oven door while I admire the shiny black surface of the flat stove-top. I glance down and my reflection is mirrored back at me.
The refrigerator is next. Its gleaming silver sparkles with the fading evening sun pouring through the window, tiny flecks of dust dancing in its rays. For just a moment, I stand within the beams of light, letting them warm my face. It’s almost peaceful in this quiet house. There’s no sound of police sirens. No horns honking. No neighbors screaming obscenities at each other through the paper-thin walls. It’s still a prison, Mila.
With a sigh of disgust, I start pulling open drawer after drawer. My despair grows with each empty one. Not a single fork. Not a single knife. I look inside all of them as well as every cabinet. Even the ones above the stove I have to crawl onto the counter to reach. There’s nothing I could possibly use as a weapon. Wait.
I grab the first aid kit I’d found under the sink and throw it open. With hurried movements, I dump everything onto the floor and rifle through it.
Shit.I’d been hoping for a pair of scissors, at the very least. The only thing I might be able to use is a needle. I slip the small packet into my pocket and return everything to the metal box. Hopefully, Death won’t notice it’s missing.
After placing it back under the sink, I begin my tour of the rest of the house, intent on checking every window and door. My heartbeat picks up in the hallway Death dragged me down as the memory returns of the sheer panic that nearly overwhelmed me. It hadn’t mattered how much I’d fought, like always, I lost.
The first room I come across is a bedroom. The large bed, turned down to look like one of those fancy hotel room beds I’ve only ever seen in pictures, dominates the room. A nightstand bookends either side of the headboard. Otherwise, the room is empty of furniture.
The next room is the master bedroom with an attached bathroom. In addition to yet another massive bed with a gorgeous maroon satin bed covering, there’s a nightstand with a lamp, a large bedside chair, and a reddish wood dresser that stretches half the length of one wall. My fingers itch to touch the comforter and see if it’s as soft as it looks. Prison, Mila, remember?
Ignoring the compulsion, I cross the room and check those windows as well. As with every single one I’ve come across, they’re locked. I didn’t expect anything different, but there had still been a small amount of hope. Defeat makes my body heavy, and I stumble back, collapsing onto the bed. With a sigh, my fingers curl into the soft, downy fabric. It’s as perfect as I imagined.
Self-pity wells up inside me. Wetness drips off my chin. I swipe a hand across my cheek. Great. A stupid comforter brings me to tears. That’s what I’m telling myself anyway. I give the bed one more glancing touch before I force myself to head back to the living room.
A quick look around confirms there isn’t even a television in here. I’m completely and utterly alone with nothing but my thoughts. Not a place I’m anxious to be. Probably because they betray me. My mind wanders far too often to my jailer. I drop onto the couch and curl up in the corner of it, tucking my knees in tight to my chest.
The sun fades behind the horizon, casting the room into near darkness. I’m surprisingly unafraid. I breathe in the scent of freedom, even if it’s only a mockery of it. Soon, my eyes grow heavy. I can’t remember the last time I slept a full night. Maybe I’ll just rest here for a minute.
The scentof freshly baked chocolate chip cookies fills my nose. Is Anya in the kitchen again? My sister can’t be trusted in there. I should go out and check on her to make sure she doesn’t burn the house down, but I’m far too comfortable. I burrow even further under sheets I don’t recall being this soft and luxurious. Disappointment fills me. This must be another one of my dreams. No wonder I’m warm and cozy. It’s not real.
There’s a shift in the air. It brings with it a familiar clean scent. One would think Death smells like smoke or decay. Instead, it’s a soft, subtle fragrance. I open my eyes to find him hovering at the end of my bed.
“You came back,” I whisper.
“Of course I did,” he replies, his voice coming almost directly into my ear.
I sit up, smooth the covers over my lap, and study him. “In all these years, not once have you spoken to me. Why now?”
Death’s hell-fire eyes blink. “Perhaps I didn’t have anything to say.”
“In over twenty years?” My lips pinch in disbelief.
“What can I tell you? I’m a man of few words.”
I pause at that response. It seems so…human. I shrug it off. “Mikhail is dead. Then again, you probably already knew that. I hope you took him to hell with you.”
“Yes.”
Satisfaction flows through me. “Good. It’s no less than he deserved. Especially after what he did.”
Death cocks his head. “What did he do?”
There’s a sharpness to his question. I shake my head in confusion. He moves from his place and circles the bed to stand at my side, staring down at me. I shrink back.
“Answer the question, Mila,” he demands, leaning down to hover directly in front of me.
My body jolts, and my eyes fly open. A startled scream pierces the air, and I try to scramble off the bed. The man lying behind me, cocooning me with his body, wraps his arms even tighter around my waist, pulling me back against his chest and pinning me to him. How the hell did I get in the bedroom?
“Relax, piccola fata,” he rasps in my ear.
Goosebumps travel down my arm, and a shiver skates down my spine. “Let me go,” I croak as I claw at the hands securing me.
“Shhh. Relax,” Death repeats, tightening his hold and locking a leg around mine.
I continue thrashing, but it’s useless. There’s no escaping him. I sag in defeat. The constriction loosens, but he doesn’t release me. Heat soaks into my flesh from our connection. Every nerve ending is standing at attention. His breath ghosts across my skin. I tense at the erection pressing into my ass. His finger traces a line up and down my arm, and a spark of electricity runs through me.
“Why are you in my bed? Where are my pants? And why are you naked?” I squeak out.
“I told you why.” Death places a soft kiss where my neck meets my shoulder and moves his lips across my hyper-sensitive flesh. He nips at me with his teeth, and a shudder tickles my spine.
“Stop, please,” I whisper.
He ignores my plea. Instead he continues nibbling along my nape and palms my breast. If he were rough I could fight. Struggle. But his touch is gentle. I’m unable to resist pressing myself into his caress. I bite my cheek hard, trying to hold back the moan that threatens to escape. The flavor of blood coats my tongue.
“I knew they’d be a perfect fit for my hand,” Death says.
My lungs burn from the need for oxygen until I can’t hold it any longer. I suck in a ragged breath. It’s as though I’m walking a tight-wire, waiting for him to make another move, but he does nothing more than cup my breast.
He places one more kiss along my neck. “Go back to sleep, piccola fata. We’ll talk in the morning.”
My body remains tightly wound, but Death doesn’t touch me in any other way. In fact, the longer I lie there, the more relaxed he becomes. Yet his hand stays where it is. What is he doing to me?
