Page 64 of Kept in the Dark

“I see,” he says, and his voice has softened. With regret? Apology? “You were being careful. Smart. After what I have said and done and kept from you, you do not trust me.”

It’s not phrased like a question, but I answer it anyway. “I want to,” I whisper through a tight throat. “I want to think of you as the man who comforted me during the storm. But I guess… I didn’t know what else to think after you tried so hard to convince me that you’re abad person.”

I wince as I finish because it sounds like I’m blaming him. And I guess I am. But this is a consequence of his own actions, right? I shouldn’t feel bad.

Except I do. Because he looks torn up about it, and now I feel like that’s my fault.

“I understand,” he says after a second and rests his chin on top of my head. “I treated you with disrespect.”

I start. He… did? He did. He did!

I’m not sure it would have occurred to me to use that word, but it’s the perfect word. How he acted wassodisrespectful. “Yeah,” I agree.

“I do not deserve your trust. Not yet. But I will, I promise. I will earn it.”

While the blankets and body heat warm me on the outside, what he said warms me on the inside.

Slowly, the stress-tightened muscles in my back relax. The heat makes me languid and loose, and unfortunately, now I’m hyper-aware of every area of my body that hurts. The main issue is that there are so many. The bottoms of my feet that were already torn up, my calves and thighs from running, my hip from bouncing against the floor of the trunk, my arms from pushing and pulling and banging on the hood, my hands from catching my fall, my chin and jaw and tongue fromnotcatching my fall… And topping it all off, my head is pounding with what is maybe the worst headache of my life.

I can barely keep my eyes open. He notices.

“Rest, now,” he says soothingly, loosening his hold. “You are safe here. No one will disturb you.”

“Are you leaving?” An edge of panic worms into my voice, and I start sitting up.

“I need to debrief my team. I will return here shortly, and when I do, we will talk about what happens next.”

20

Dimitri

The Hitman’s Halfway House for Kidnapped Girls

Ever since James invited a civilian to live with us, we typically meet in Wesley’s office for discussions related to our work. It is several degrees warmer in here than the rest of the house from the mechanical whirring of too many electronics, and smells faintly of burnt plastic and the odors of a body. The signs of Wesley are everywhere, mostly in the form of empty energy drink cans piled together and surfaces covered in electrical projects half-completed.

When I approach, James and Wesley are in the middle of a heated debate about something asinine. I stop to listen for a moment. It is familiar and comfortable, like the feeling of coming home.

“All I’m sayin’ is, don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” James says, brandishing a tall glass that is full of ice and a brown liquid sloshing around. “It’s a completely different beverage.”

Wesley scoffs, sitting back in his mesh desk chair with his fingers laced behind his head. “And what I’m saying is, no self-respecting Brit would, sorry.”

“Hot leaf water—‘scuse me,tea—has its place and all, but nothing beats a good southern sweet tea on a hot day. Just like mama used to make.” James turns to me, lifting his drink and shaking it so the ice rattles against the glass. “Back me up here, D.”

I lift a brow. I know James is originally from somewhere in the southeastern US and has a large family still living there, but he does not speak of it often. “It is four degrees Celsius outside.”

“It’s a figure of speech.”

“You know where I am from, and you know the kinds of things I prefer to consume. You think I would choose a cold beverage that is full of sugar?”

Wesley smirks, and James scowls, sitting back in his chair. With a huff of a sigh, he takes a deep sip and places it on the glass top of Wesley’s desk. “I dunno, I guess I thought I could always count on Russia and England to be on opposite sides.”

“Well,politically, we don’t really align. Dictator regime and all that,” Wesley says, his accent becoming more pronounced as he thinks of his home country. He lifts James’s glass and slides a coaster in the shape of an alien underneath.

“I did not vote for him,” I shrug.

Wesley laughs, then turns to James and says, “See, it’s funny because—”

“I know why it’s funny, you condescending asshole,” James says, his grin more a baring of teeth than a smile. He turns to me and gestures to the middle of his own face. “Well, you’re looking a bit worse for wear, Big D. Nice shiners. Broken?”