The elevator dings. I squeeze Pasha’s hand and try to bring my breathing under control. The urge to ask him to go back clashes with the need to feel the keys beneath my fingers once again. The doors open. Pasha steps out, turns to face me, and takes both of my hands in one of his.
“Breathe. We’ll go slow,” he says and takes a small backward step. “I’m here. No one will dare touch you, mishka.”
I nod and step out of the elevator.
There are more people around than there were the previous time. A multitude of sights and sounds overwhelm my senses—lights, laughter, footsteps, children running by while their parents are frantically trying to corral them. I close my eyes.
Pasha’s rough palm cups my cheek and his thick arm wraps around my waist. “It’s okay, baby.”
My eyes flutter open a
