Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 74579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
There are unspoken words between us, though.
I won't let anyone hurt her but me. And can I control myself when I'm pulled into another vivid, violent dream? Maybe tonight will be different. But even as my eyes close, even as I sink deeper into sleep, I wonder. Will I be able to stop myself? This time, will I hurt her?
My heart races in my chest when the scraping sound of the door opening wakes me from my sleep. I was dreaming, and I've woken, and somewhere in my subconscious I tell myself I'm still dreaming. I woke within a dream, not reality, but it feels so real. The raw pain that permeates every cell of my body. The dank scent of decay in my nostrils. The smell and taste of my own blood.
My body is broken and mutilated. I lay on the floor of the cell, waiting for death to come, but I'm a sinner who doesn't deserve a swift and merciful death.
Then why does the angel come?
She's real. Though I can't see her, I can feel the cool, calming touch of her hand, and hear her soft, soothing whisper.
"Mne tak zhal," the angel says. I'm sorry.
A gentle hand lifts my head. The faintest scent of roses with the gentle touch. Cool water presses to my lips. "Tishina," she whispers, both a warning and a plea. Hush.
"Shh," she says, reaching out to stroke my cheek, and it isn't until a tear drop hits my bare chest that I realize she's crying.
I wake, my body covered in sweat, but it isn't the angel of my dreams that kneels beside me.
"Mne tak zhal," Olena says. Like the angel, she's holding water to my lips, her hand on my brow. "You were dreaming again." To my surprise, there are tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Did I hurt you?" I ask in a groggy whisper, still half asleep.
She shakes her head. "No," she says, her voice wavering. "I'm not the one hurt this time."
I sip the water and meet her eyes.
"You remind me of someone," I say, my voice hoarse with the memory.
"Who?" she asks curiously, but she doesn't meet my eyes. My skin prickles with awareness. Something about this moment holds meaning and my body reacts before my mind does. My heart races, my palms sweaty, while I push myself to sitting on the bed and speak nothing but the truth.
"You remind me of the angel I conjured up when I—"
I close my mouth. I've already said too much. I've never told her I was held prisoner by her father. I've never spoken of what they did to me.
"When you what?" she whispers, still holding the water, though her body now freezes as she awaits my answer.
But here, in the darkness of the cabin with just the two of us, there's no reason not to tell her.
"It sounds crazy," I tell her.
"I like crazy," she retorts, which actually makes me smile a little.
"I was held prisoner by your father," I tell her. "I was kept on the floor of a cell. They took turns beating and torturing me. And a few times, in my sleep, I imagined an angel came to minister to me."
"Did she?" But her voice is stronger now, as she slides the glass on a bedside table. "Did she tell you she was sorry?" Leaning down to brush her lips to my cheeks. My skin prickles with vivid awareness when my memory and present collide.
Olena's voice drops to a whisper. "They told me you died."
I blink at her in surprise. "What?"
"Did the angel... touch you like this?" I can hardly hear her; she's speaking so softly. A faint moon beam lights her pretty face as she closes her eyes, kneels beside me, and brushes her hand across my brow. "And did the angel speak to you in Russian?" A tear trails leaks from her closed eyes. "Mne tak zhal. Tishina."
And just that quickly, I'm back on the floor of the cell. I can feel the cold beneath my bloodied and broken body, the gentle touch of the angel's hands and words. And it hits me, so obvious I can't believe I never saw it before.
Her scent. Her voice. The unmistakable feeling that we shared a connection I couldn't quite decipher.
"It was you," I whisper. "You were the angel."
She bows her head and shakes it. "I'm no angel, Maksym. But I was the one who came to you when you were imprisoned. I knew they held a man prisoner. I couldn't bear his screams. I went to him when I thought they weren't looking, but my father found out. He punished me in the most effective way he could think of. He told me you were dead." And then, with bold bravery only Olena could embrace, she leans down, and her lips meet mine.