Page 5 of Pas de Trois
He swallows as he ignites me with his fire and the heat is almost too much to bear. My mind is already overloaded, and my body can’t take much more stress. Nikolai is talking in riddles that only induce further frustration. I want answers, yet I don’t. I feel jittery and anxious and completely overwhelmed. The touch of Ezra’s hands on the small of my back makes me tremble.
It’s too much.
It’s too fucking much.
I gently push Ezra’s hands from me and scoot around him, storming off to the back of the plane. I slide open the door to the small bedroom, marching past the bed Nikolai has fucked me on more times than I can count, and enter the bathroom just beyond it. I slide the accordion door shut behind me. The bathroom is small, but not tiny like a commercial airline bathroom. There’s enough space in here to pace three small steps from one end to the other.
I bend over the sink, gripping the rounded counter’s edge as I breathe heavily, trying to get control of my rising panic before it grips me. I slowly lift my head and take in my appearance in the mirror above the small sink. I’ve never looked so awful. My cheeks are hollow, skin sallow, hair wet and matted from being trapped in Vigo’s tub.
But worst of all is the red.
Vigo’s blood coats my skin and stains the white shirt.
I look down at the buttons and suddenly remember that this is Vigo’s shirt.
I’m wearing Vigo’s shirt and it’s covered in his blood because I killed him.
I shot him.
I killed him.
Oh, God…
My skin is suddenly crawling for me to get it off, and my fingers fumble, trembling as I reach to unbutton the shirt.
Get it off.
Get. It. Off.
The bathroom door slides open and shuts again, but I don’t even look up.
“Anya.” I hear Ezra’s voice.
“Get it off me.” One button comes free and I fumble for the next, trying and trying, but my fingers keep slipping. “Get it off me. Get his shirt off me!”
“Anya, stop.”
Ezra reaches for the buttons to help me, but I’m out of my mind. It only feels as though he’s trying to interfere, and I push his hands away as I keep struggling to unbutton this godforsaken shirt.
Are there a hundred fucking buttons on this shirt?!
“Anya.” He snatches my wrists. “Stop. Let me help you.”
I don’t hear him trying to help me; I only feel him stopping me. I yank free from his grip and slap his hands away, then reach for another button. My whole body shakes as this overwhelming agitation takes over and I can’t stop it.
I can’t stop it.
I need Ezra to stop it.
“Fuck. Please,” I beg, words failing me.
In a rush, he’s in my space, hands grasping the hem of the shirt that reaches halfway down my thighs. His fingers brush my skin and the jolt of lightning startles me into stillness. He lifts the oversized shirt, peeling it up my body.
“Arms up,” he says to me.
In this sudden stillness that he’s sparked with his touch, my mind can listen, and I obey.
I raise my arms and he peels the shirt from my body, tossing it behind him on the floor. I would feel stupid for not thinking to do that myself if it weren’t for the fact that I’m so acutely aware of his presence, his heat, his power that poses no threat but only exists to care for me.
