Agent 7. The Shadows: Part I

▪️◼️Chapter Twenty Eight◼️▪️

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ALINA
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I don't sleep.

Not for long anyway. After my episode in the bathroom Matteo put me to bed, just for me to fall into a short fitful sleep.

Apart from the clock on the nightstand that reads 2:41AM and the faint light from the city shinning in through the window, my eyes blink open to complete darkness.

My body aches with sore muscles and tender skin. I can only imagine how I must look, the bite marks mixed with the bruises. My eyes cut through the darkness, trailing along the shadowy shapes of the furniture, trying to snag on Matteo's hooded figure but I don't see him.

My brows furrow. That's strange.

I pull the blankets down from around my face and sit up onto my elbow. "Matteo?"

I'm met with silence.

I tug at the comforter and pull my legs out from the warm confinement of the bed. I plant my bare feet on the scratchy, carpeted floor and tip toe into the reticent darkness.

He isn't here. He isn't anywhere in the suite.

I swivel around, "Matteo?" I call out softly, afraid to stir the muted quiet. My words seem to bounce off of the walls and echo mockingly back. I turn and peek into the closet for good measure. It's empty.

I walk back into the deserted living space.

He's gone. He must have left while I was sleeping and I'm at a loss of what to do.

I bite at the inside of my cheek as my eyes roam around the darkened space, they flick between the door and the bed, as I contemplate my options.

Do I leave?

I don't want to stay here, who knows what Matteo will force me to do next, but where the hell am I supposed to go? I have no friends or family to turn to. I don't have a car and I'm broke. Everything I had up until this point, including my small apartment, was Vladimir's and I would rather gouge out my own eyeballs than go back there.

Besides, this is the best I've been treated in years.

I scuff loudly into the obscurity, the sound seems to shatter the vacant, cold air that surrounds me as the thought resonates deeper. How pathetic is that? My kidnapper has treated me better than any man ever has. He has cared for me better and has hurt me less than Vladimir ever did.

I rub my face with my hands.

I don't even think my body can handle running away after the night I've had.

I eye the bed again warily.

It took me what felt like forever to fight through an anxiety attack in the shower and to quiet the tears. It wasn't until Matteo came in for me that I was able to ground myself. My night out alone on the streets would only provoke those negative feelings back up to the surface. I'd be forced to sleep in the cold, probably on cement or in a park, shivering and wet. I wouldn't make it far for very long.

With a heavy exhale, I turn toward the closet—knowing what my decision is—and make my way back inside the warmly-lit room.

I step up to the rack of women's clothing in search of casual sleepwear. Everything's made up of pristinely stitched fabrics and designer cuts. Some dresses, a few dress slacks and matching tops. But nothing comfortable to sleep in.

I gaze longingly at Matteo's large white futbolki (T shirts) hanging in a group of matching forms across the room.

I shouldn't.