Page 27 of Leave Me (Touch of Death 2)
7
Sasha
I stand beneath the dim glow of the streetlight. Snow swirls around me in a vortex of white, making it impossible to see anything in the darkness beyond. Through the howling wind, I hear what sounds like a cry for help. I whip around frantically, trying to find the source of the sound. A hand lands on my arm and I turn, bringing a knife to the person’s throat. I blink.
“Adelina?” A fur hood is pulled up over her head, hiding her eyes, but I recognize the bow of her lips. I reach out and place a finger beneath her chin, tipping her head back. Her skin is pale and ice-cold, though a blush touches her cheeks. Tiny drops of moisture cling to dark lashes that frame those deep-blue eyes. She’s more perfect than I ever remembered.
Wordlessly, she pushes up on tiptoes and grasps my face in both her hands. Those chilled lips brush over mine, and I’m suddenly no longer cold. She breathes life into me. Warmth seeps through my skin until it feels like my very bones are burning. Time stands still, and everything stops. The wind no longer shrieks past me, battering my cheeks. It’s just…silent and still. All I can hear is each intermingled beat of our hearts, the soft inhale of her breaths. I close my eyes, basking in her glow.
“I miss you,” I confess, breaking the silence.
Her thumb strokes over the corner of my lip, and she rests her forehead against mine. “I know.”
My hands glide over her waist, pulling her closer. “Don’t leave.”
Her thumb continues to brush in soft circles, and she presses her lips to mine once more. “I’m sorry,” she breathes against my mouth.
Sudden pain lances through my stomach, and I choke on a cough, as the metallic tang of blood coats my tongue. I pull back and focus on her face, on the glassy tears that now cling to her cheeks like diamonds.
“I’m sorry.” Her head tilts to the side, fingertips stroking over my lips as the tears continue to fall. When she pulls them away, they’re tipped in crimson.
With a staggered step back, I look down at the handle of the blade that protrudes from my stomach. “Why, malyshka?”
No reply. When I look up, she’s gone. The screaming wind intrudes once more, the snow wiping away all traces of her as though she never was. I drop to my knees and yank out the blade. Blood spills free, spattering across the snow beneath me. I press my hand to the wound, feeling the warm liquid pour through my fingers.
“Adelina,” I gasp as I fall to my back onto the cold ground. That orange light blurs above me behind the swirl of the blizzard. And then everything goes black.
I blink open my eyes and glance around the room in confusion. I’m back in my room in Nero’s Hamptons house. That pain lances through my stomach again and intensifies as I try to sit up. I look down at the bandages wrapped around my bare torso. Tossing the bedspread back, I swing my legs over the edge of the mattress. Memories swirl together in a blur. Getting shot and stabbed. Reality and dream distort until I can’t tell one from the other. I was shot, but she stabbed me. Something tugs at my arm, an IV attached to a blood bag still two-thirds full. I grab the cannula and rip it out, sending a thin trail of blood trickling over my forearm.
The door clicks open, and Tommy walks in with a syringe and needle in hand. He pauses, freezing like a rabbit in headlights when he sees me.
“Uh, you’re up.”
“So, it would seem.”
He nods, offering me a sheepish smile. “Una told me to give you this.” He holds up the syringe, and I narrow my eyes.
“Do you even know what you’re doing?”
He shrugs. “Sure. Just a jab in the butt and you’re grand.” How reassuring.
“Where is Una?”
He fidgets uncomfortably. “Downstairs.”
Which begs the question, why isn’t she here? Instead, she sends Tommy, of all people. The boy is useless. I push to my feet with a grunt, and my head spins. I take a few steps toward the door, and Tommy moves in front of me. I’m not sure if he’s brave or stupid at this point.
“Move.”
“Um, you lost blood. You probably shouldn’t be walking around.”
“Move.”
He ducks his chin. “Sure.” He shifts to the side. “But you need this.” He waves the syringe at me, and I snatch it from his fingers.
I twist around, sending pain lancing through my stomach as I tug the waistband of my tracksuit pants down and jab the needle into my butt cheek. When I finish, I hand the syringe back to him and leave the room.
The house is mainly quiet, but I can hear the distant notes of classical music drifting along the corridors. I follow the sound to the living room where I find Nero. He’s staring at his phone as he clutches a tumbler of whiskey in his free hand. The amber liquid swirls around the glass, sending ice clinking against the sides.
