Page 29 of Kept in the Dark

Dimitri.

Dimitri is in this bed with me.

Even though I was on my back when I closed my eyes, I never fall asleep and wake up in the same position. I’m a toss-and-turner, and I always end up on my side. So it’s not really a surprise to wake up with the wood-paneled wall about an inch from my nose, but I genuinely also expect to find a thick arm around my waist and a burning body pressed into mine from behind. There’s a fluttering deep in my lower stomach at the thought.

One bed.

I don’t have much time for reading, but I know what a trope is.

So when I give my torso an experimental shift and there’s enough freedom of movement that I can feel cool air behind me, relief and disappointment rise simultaneously to swirl together in a confusing mishmash that makes me shake my head at myself as I roll onto my back to sit up.

What’s wrong with me? It’sgoodthat he didn’t take advantage of me in my sleep. Why does it feel like a rejection? I can’t possibly be sillyenough to be disappointed that he did what I asked him to and kept it PG.

Well, I can, but I shouldn’t be.

With a deep sigh, I swing my legs off the bed. I hiss as the bottoms of my feet touch the polished wood floor, reminding me of all the sharp sticks and rocks I found during our trek through the woods. The satin fabric of my dress winds between my legs, creating static sparks against the blanket that cause an eruption of full-body goosebumps. They worsen as the chill of the room settles against my bare skin.

The only illumination is coming from the cabin above—spilling down the small staircase and through the open door—and it’s got a filtered, gray quality to it. Though the dim light casts the room in shadows of varying darkness, it’s enough to see that I’m in here alone. The emptiness is acute.

I grab the small beaded bag that contains my glasses and contraband cell phone, and wrap my arms around myself as I hobble across the room towards the light switch. Unprepared for the sudden rocking motion of the boat, I nearly fall into the wall as the door swings open. I grip the banister with my free hand and lean forward enough to see up into the top part of the boat.

Everything is wood and brass, creating a distinctly old-timey vibe. Vintage lanterns sway from hooks in the ceiling, and the steering wheel has spokes with rounded knobs. I half expect to see a ruffled, tri-corner captain’s hat.

This place is… uh… rustic. Charming? Cozy?

“Ah!” I hear, followed by a string of angry-sounding Russian.

“Dimitri?” I ask, knocking on what I now know is the bathroom door—you can just tell when someone’s voice is echoing off hard surfaces like tile, glass, and porcelain. “Everything okay?”

“Da.”It’s curt.

Go away,Mom.

Okaaay. I turn away from the bathroom. I have to pee, but I’m also thirsty, so I move upstairs. The tiny kitchen area is directly to the right, and I make a beeline right for the sink. I let the water run long enough to confirm it looks and smells clean, then wash my hands obsessively and drink directly from the faucet.

Hands now clean, I remove my contacts, toss them in the trash, and place my glasses on my face, sighing in relief as the world comes back into focus and the sandpaper feeling from blinking dissipates.

I need some food and a shower, not necessarily in that order. I don’t love the idea of putting dirty underwear back on, so maybe I should wash them and hang them to dry before I do anything else… but first, maybe a little more natural light would be good. The cabin could do with being aired out…

I turn to the windows, only to freeze.

All I see is water.

What the fuck?Where’s the dock? Where are all the other boats? Where’s the land?

Panic squeezes in my chest.

I storm back down the stairs as the boat rocks again, bouncing off the walls on both sides in my uncoordinated urgency. I knock on the bathroom door. “Dimitri?”

“What?” His tone is even more curt this time, if possible, and I grimace.

“Where are we?”

“How would you like me to answer that? Five klicks northeast of the marina you do not know the location of?” His words are mocking, but his tone is more factual and angry than derisive.

With a stifled sigh, I rub my eyes. Frustrating as it is, he’s not technically wrong—that wasn’t the question I wanted answered, anyway. “I mean,” I grit out, “I thought we were staying in the marina.”

“I never said this.”