Agent 7. The Shadows: Part I

▪️◾️Chapter Eleven◾️▪️

I wake slowly.

Hints of spice and citrus fill my nostrils as bright sunlight invades my dreams.

I crack my eyes open to barely there slits. I'm surrounded by blurs of white—white blanket, white sheets, white walls—but my mind is too groggy to make sense of it.

I turn over onto my other side facing the middle of the bed as pieces of my horrifying night come back to me.

I pinch my eyes shut in the hopes that yesterday was only a nightmare and I'm back in my tiny bed in my shitty apartment.

I peek my eyes back open. No such luck. There's a soft, white-silk pillowcase under my head that fills my vision as a yawn overtakes me.

As I stretch I mentally assess my body, taking note of any aches in places that shouldn't be there. It seems my captor kept his word.

I lift my head.

I startle when my eyes catch on my kidnapper in the bed with me.

I shrink away from him on instinct.

I remember all too vividly now the things this man did last night. He's not just a monster from my nightmares but one in real life and he's laying just a few centimeters away.

He's on his back, body as rigid as a board with his arms crossed over his abdomen.

His chest is rising and falling calmly, synchronous to the quiet thrum of the room.

He's asleep.

He must have showered while I slept in, his hair is damp and he smells of the same soap I cleaned myself up with last night.

I trace his profile in secret. His features are softer and less hardened and serious as he sleeps. He looks younger too, I can almost imagine the small boy he once was.

I wonder if he killed people then, too?

My eyes travel further down to his hands. They are gripping a gun and resting on his torso. His thick-knuckled index finger is hovering above the trigger with the nose pointed directly at my chest.

My eyes expand to their fullest, and I freeze, unblinking. Even in sleep he has death on his mind.

I've never met a man who has killer instincts ingrained in his very nature. Nor have I ever known a person to be ready to kill even when comatose.

Vladimir and the men in his circle were merely children with weapons. They thought them to be more an accessory than a tool. A commodity to make them appear tougher. Not this man, he is the weapon, his gun being another extension of himself.

That's what frightens me the most about him.

As quietly as I can, I reach up to push the gun down so that it's no longer pointing in my direction.

I hold my breath and bite my lip as I reach across the bed to where he's sleeping.

Swiftly, and without opening his eyes, his hand flies up and snatches my wrist out of the air, halting my progress when my fingers are centimeters away.

How did he—

His eyes snap open startling me even more. Stealing my next breath from my lungs.

"Don't." He snaps at me.

Sage green and flecks of gold shimmer in the sunlight as he scrutinizes me from the corner of his eyes. Alarmed, I pull back out of his grasp but his fingers cinch around my wrist tighter not letting me go.

My lungs press for air and I relent.

"You have it pointed at my heart," I whisper feeling out of breath. I yank my arm back but he holds on still, unwilling to release me.