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For a moment, I consider refusing, but curiosity gets the better of me. I reach out hesitantly, and as our fingers brush, a jolt shoots through me, sharp and unexpected. His knuckles are scarred, rough, the kind of hands that have done damage. Hands that don’t belong to a man who sits behind a desk all day. Hands that make me wonder just how much damage they could do to me.
I pull my hand back quickly, clutching the package to my chest as if that will stop the heat spreading through me. I hate the way my body reacts to him. The way even the slightest touch from him sets my nerves on fire.
I clear my throat, trying to focus on the package instead of the man standing so close. Carefully, I tear off the paper, revealing a sleek black phone.
I stare at it, my heart pounding. “What is this?”
“A phone,” he says simply. “It has restricted access, but you can call your mom on it.”
I blink at him, stunned. “What?”
“I spoke to your father,” he continues, his voice steady. “I got her number programmed into it.”
I don’t know what shocks me more—that he did this or that he spoke to my dad about it.
“You…you talked to him?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes.” His gaze locks onto mine, intense and unyielding. “Tatyana mentioned you were feeling homesick.”
I glance down at the phone in my hands. I don’t know if I want to be mad at her for telling him, or grateful that she got me the help I needed—even if it was from my worst enemy.
“Why?” I finally ask, looking back up at him. “Why would you do this?”
His expression softens slightly, though his voice remains measured. “Because I can’t change the situation you’re in, but I can try to make it easier.”
“I don’t understand you, Mikhail,” I say, shaking my head. “You make my life a living hell, and then you do something like this. What am I supposed to think?”
“You don’t have to think anything,” he says. “Just call your mother.”
I stare at him, searching his face for some hidden motive, but all I find is a quiet intensity that leaves me feeling more unsettled than before.
Without another word, he turns and walks toward the door.
“Mikhail,” I call out, my voice barely above a whisper.
He stops but doesn’t turn around.
“Thank you,” I say, the words tasting strange on my tongue.
He nods once and leaves, the door clicking shut behind him.
I clutch the phone tightly, staring at the screen as a lump forms in my throat.
For the first time in weeks, I feel a sliver of hope.
12
LILA
Istare at the phone in my hands, my fingers tracing the edges, my heartbeat pounding so loudly I can hear it in my ears.
I press the power button, and the screen lights up. The interface is simple, almost bare—no apps, no messages, nothing except one saved contact underMom.
A lump forms in my throat as I hover my thumb over the call button. It’s been two weeks. Two weeks since I was taken from everything I knew, since I last heard her voice.
What if she’s angry that I didn’t call sooner? What if she’s been trying to reach me and thought I abandoned her?
I swallow hard and take a shaky breath before pressing the button.