Dangerous Desire

27

I stare at him, surprised he has such strong feelings on the subject and that someone like him would have even a passing familiarity with the good book.

He presses, “Why would your God allow someone like Hitler to exist? Why would he let the rape and enslavement of children occur? Why would he allow so much suffering?”

“Because we were given free will. We weren’t created to be slaves. How we live our lives is our choice, and if we choose to be evil . . . he allows it.”

He says flatly, “That makes no sense.”

“Neither does love. Yet it exists. It’s real, even if you don’t believe in it. Just like God.” I blow out a hard breath and set the empty glass on the bedside table. “I’m a hypocrite, though.”

I feel his attention sharpen. He asks, “How?”

“I said it was God’s job to decide who lives or dies, but . . .”

“But what?”

I glance up at him. “But I’ve killed two men.”

He’s shocked, I can tell, though he tries not to show it. I can also tell he’s intrigued, but he waits for me to continue without prompting.

“They were Dimitri’s men. They blew up the car I was riding in and tried to kidnap me.” I pause for a moment. “You’re lucky I don’t have a gun.”

“You wouldn’t shoot me,” he says instantly.

“That’s the thing, though,” I say faintly. “The thing I discovered about myself. The thing I never would have believed. If it comes right down to it, I’m capable of taking a life.”

“Only to protect yourself. Self-defense isn’t the same as what I did to Raphael. You’re not a murderer.”

“I realize you probably have a lot of experience on the subject, so I hate to contradict you, but technically anyone who has committed murder is a murderer.”

His expression is a combination of amusement at my sarcastic tone and intense curiosity about what I’m saying. “Let’s go back to what you said a second ago. About Dimitri’s men trying to kidnap you.”

“What about it?”

“Why would they do that? Were they going to barter you to get something from him, too?”

“No. Dimitri ordered them to.”

He furrows his brow.

Exhausted, I exhale a heavy breath. “This would be much easier to explain if you’d tell me your side of the story first. What you want from Dimitri, how you came to be aboard this ship, what the deal between you and Raphael is . . .” That sick feeling returns. “Was.”

He answers without hesitation. “The less you know the better.”

I consider that and have to concede he has a good point. Dimitri will no doubt want to know everything that was said on this ship, and he’ll surely have terrible ways of extracting that information. If I know nothing, I might get away with only a few broken bones before he’s convinced.

So I start talking.

I tell Killian the story of how I met Dimitri when I was twenty, how he saw me dance in a production of The Firebird and introduced himself backstage after the show. How polite and generous he seemed at first, how flatteringly smitten, how he courted me and even brought my mother flowers. Ashamed, I tell Killian how awed I was by Dimitri’s wealth—having come from a poor family myself—and how easy it was to be seduced by his charm and sweet, boyish face.

I tell him how, after a few dates, I refused to sleep with him because I was a virgin and wanted to save myself for marriage. I also tell him how enraged that made Dimitri. How he beat me.

How I lost consciousness. How I woke to him violating my body.

How from then on I was a kept thing with no will of my own, no voice, no options. How he moved my mother and me into his mansion and held me hostage on threat of her life. How I was always under lock and key, under surveillance, under his cruel, demanding thumb.

How I hated myself more and more with each passing day.

I tell him how, after seven years of suffering for us both, my mother finally died of a protracted illness. I tell him how I escaped.

How I met Naz.

How, for the first time in my life, I fell in love.

How completely I was loved in return.

I tell Killian every good and horrible thing that led me to this moment, sitting across from him on the edge of this bed in this room. When I stop talking, it isn’t until I feel something hot and wet drip onto my wrist that I realize I’m crying.

After a time, his voice thick, Killian says, “And for all that, you’re willingly going back to Dimitri.”

My exhalation is a great gust of a thing and takes the last of my energy with it. “I told you. If I don’t go back, Naz dies. Also”—I manage a sick laugh—“back to me being a hypocrite. Because I’m going to find a way to kill Dimitri.”

The room has begun a gentle, slow spin, all the world tilting and topsy-turvy. I’m queasy, hopeless, and bone-tired. “So I guess that makes us the same.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know it’s wrong to take a life, but I’m going to do it anyway.”

I lose the ability to hold myself upright. Killian catches me as I topple sideways. He lowers me gently to the mattress, brushes a lock of hair off my forehead, and pulls the too-big moccasins from my feet.

Just as I’m tumbling into unconsciousness, he murmurs, “We’re not the same, bhrèagha. You’ve still got a soul.”