We head directly to the elevator — a welcome sight, especially compared to my sixth floor walk-up. Once the sleek metal doors are shut, Pavlenko presses the button to take us to the very top floor of the building. He looks down at me with a grim, worried expression, as though he’s just waiting for me to wither away right before his eyes. I hate when people think I’m fragile, but in this case… it’s not an inaccurate assumption.
There’s a ding and the doors slide silently open again.
“Come,” he says, softly taking me by the arm to lead me down the hallway, which has glossy wood flooring and stark white walls. There are framed still life paintings and artfully sculpted sconces illuminating the hall with a friendly glow. We stop in front of an elaborately carved white door. Pavlenko unlocks it and leads me into his flat.
I am surprised to see that it doesn’t vary all that sharply from my own little apartment, except that this one looks slightly more lived-in. The furnishings are simple, but upon a second glance, I can tell that the quality is much, much higher than what I have. I’m still too tired to really focus hard on my surroundings, but the black, velvety sofa Pavlenko situates me down on is soft and luxurious underneath my legs.
“You’re injured,” he comments, looking at my bloodied knees. I frown for a moment, not even sure how I got this way. Then I remember being flung across the room, my knees scraping on the dirty concrete floor. I’m used to slight injuries; they’re a part of my life as a gymnast. Nothing to worry about. But I have to admit that my knees do look pretty grisly. Definitely worse than your garden-variety skinned knee. Still, I don’t want Pavlenko to hover over me and treat me like some broken-down doll.
“It’s nothing. I’m fine,” I tell him, but he doesn’t buy it.
“I’ll get you cleaned up,” he says. “Stay put.”
I’m in no position to balk at any order he gives me. After all, he did just save my life. And as soon as he walks away toward the kitchen, my stomach lurches. I realize with a jolt that I don’t want to be alone. No — more than that — I cannot bear to be left alone right now.
“Please don’t leave me,” I whimper quietly, ashamed of my own weakness.
He instantly turns around, a soft and pitying look in his gray-green eyes. His jaw twitches, ever so slightly. I can tell he’s struggling to contain some overbearing emotion, something pressing to overflow and take control. He comes back and kneels in front of me.
“I’ll be just around the corner. You need to sit here and rest. I promise I will only take a moment,” he assures me. There’s not even the slightest hint of a sharp edge to his tone. Gone is the severe, uptight man who introduced himself to me at that gymnastics banquet back in North Carolina. And no longer is he the hardened killer that rescued me from a horrific fate I could scarcely imagine.
He doesn’t belittle me for my weakness, nor infantilize my fear.
I nod reluctantly and swallow hard. Just the idea of sitting here alone for only a few minutes makes me feel nauseous, after those lonely hours in that dark cell. I never want to be alone again. But I can do it. He’s not going anywhere, I remind myself.
“Good girl,” he says, going to the kitchen. I sit nervously, my eyes darting around the room, fearful that at any moment Will is going to slink out from behind a piece of furniture and capture me again. But Pavlenko comes back after only a minute or so, carrying a damp rag and a bottle of what looks like rubbing alcohol.
“This might sting a little,” he says apologetically, crouching down. He dampens the rag with alcohol and gently dabs at my knees. I inhale sharply at the sudden pinch of pain. There’s a lot more blood to clean off than I expected, and I start to feel slightly woozy. I’ve never been very good at dealing with blood. I’ve got a weak stomach, which I consider a huge embarrassment. It’s such a cliché — the fragile young woman who faints at the sight of blood.
When he’s finished, he stands up and surveys me with his hands on his hips.
“How do you feel?” he asks gravely.
I pause for a moment, biting my lip. There are so many things I want to say. I feel abused. I feel betrayed. I feel broken inside. Instead, I just say, “I feel like I need a bath.”
“That place they kept you was filthy,” he agrees. “I will run you a bath here, if you don’t mind. I promise I’ll give you as much privacy as you need.”
He turns to leave and I instinctively reach out to grab his wrist. He looks down at my hand first, his eyes slowly raising to meet my gaze. I struggle to find the words I need.