Page 29 of Ripping the Odds

“Talk to me about last night first.”

“What do you want to know?”

“As much as you’re willing to share with me.”

I wasn’t used to such tenderness coming from the man who acted so cold and distant in public. Even before, he’d always been respectful, just not overly friendly. My how times had changed.

“They don’t happen every night, but they happen often enough that the rehab doctor gave me medication to help me sleep. I only took it once. The drugs made me so groggy, I couldn’t wake myself up from the dreams. I hadn’t had one in almost two weeks.”

“Then you came home.”

“Yeah.”

“Are they all the same or different?”

“Same.”

He stayed quiet, giving me time to gather my courage. His hand began to move on my back, the same way it did the night before. Up and down. Slow and steady. Out of everyone, Zak deserved the details––not the gory details, mind you––but more than what his imagination was conjuring up. The not knowing must’ve been eating him alive. It was obvious in the way he glued himself to my side at the resort for the entire day. I thought for sure he’d have meetings to attend. When I looked at his calendar, I saw it had been blocked off for the entire week. I wasn’t the only one who noticed. Kasimir, Dimitri, and Makari did too.

“They’re from when my leg was injured. It was the second or third beating, I’m not sure. Everything kinda runs together now, you know?” I sucked in a deep breath, and blew it out. I did it twice more before I could continue. “I remember thinking I was going to die.”

“Fuck, baby.”

“There were three of them besides Machail. The one with the big scar on his face, he’s who I always see in my nightmares.”

“I’ll fucking end him.”

“Don’t say things like that.” Lifting my head off his chest, I frowned at the anguished expression on his face. Tracing the furrow between his eyebrows with my index finger, I continued, “Besides, he died in the warehouse.”

“I’m so sorry, Pru.”

“It’s not your fault. None of it.”

“Thank you for telling me.”

Switching subjects completely, I asked the question which had been plaguing me for hours.

“How did you get over here so quickly last night?”

“I ran.”

“From where?”

“An apartment.”

“Zakhar Vlaschenko, are you being deliberately obtuse?”

“No, I’m trying to decide how much to disclose.”

“Everything.”

“Fine.” Zak did an ab crunch, kissed my forehead, before sliding out from underneath me. “Get ready for work then meet me in the kitchen. I’ll make breakfast.”

“You cook?”

“Fuck no. I’ll order something.”

“Zak?”