Painted Scars (Perfectly Imperfect, #1)(12)
When I find the bastards who planted that bomb, I’m going to enjoy killing them. I might have been sedated, but I remember two people talking in my hospital room. I couldn’t recognize the voices or grasp the whole meaning of what was said, but I understood enough to know that they were involved.
One of them is probably my flesh and blood, living under my roof. I don’t have proof, but I’m almost certain that Leonid played a part. Who is the other one? I still have to find out.
When I leave my room, I hear a sound of slightly off-key singing coming from the kitchen and turn to see Nina rummaging through the fridge. I knew she was short, but from my sitting position last night, I wasn’t able to pinpoint her exact height. She’s even shorter than I thought, barely five feet. The hem of my T-shirt reaches down to her knees, and she looks comical in it. Barefoot, the top of her head wouldn’t even come to my breastbone.
She’s standing with her back to me, so she doesn’t see me when I approach to stand by the dining table a few paces behind her.
“Anything interesting in that fridge?” I ask.
Nina jumps with a startled yelp and closes the fridge with a bang. “Shit, you almost gave me a heart att—”
She stops mid-sentence and just stands there staring at me, her eyes huge. I expected her to be surprised seeing me out of the wheelchair, but the emotion showing on her face is not a surprise. It’s fear.
“Nina?” I take a step toward her.
She flinches and takes a step back, bumping into the fridge. Her breathing quickens, becoming shallow like she can’t take enough air in, and her hands are slightly trembling. She is having a panic attack. I have no idea what triggered it, but she’s terrified of something and I’m pretty certain that the something is me. It makes no sense. Just a couple of hours earlier I was holding her in my lap, and she didn’t look scared at all.
“Roman,” she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper, “I need you to sit down. Please.”
I don’t see the sense in her request, but I take two steps toward the dining table, pull out the chair, and sit down. Nina stays rooted to the spot in front of the fridge, but at least her breathing seems to be coming under control.
A stray thought crosses my mind, something she said when we arrived. I remember it clearly now and I don’t like what it implies. “You said something last night. I need you to explain what you meant by that.”
She blinks and shakes her head. “What exactly?”
Her voice is stronger now, almost normal, but still, she doesn’t move. Her back is plastered to the fridge like she wants to melt into it.
I focus my eyes on her face, making sure I catch her reaction. “What did you mean by ‘I’m not a fan of large things’?”
She blinks and, instead of answering, turns on her heel and runs into her room. The door closes with a bang at the same time my realization settles in and anger starts boiling in my stomach. Someone hurt her, and for her to react this way, it must have been really bad.
The clock on the nightstand shows two p.m. I can’t stay locked in the room the whole day, I know that. But still, I can’t make myself go there and face Roman after the episode from this morning. He probably thinks I’m crazy. God, even after two years, I’m still fucked up in the head.
It was getting better. I came to a point where I was able to be in the company of huge men without freaking out. I could even hold a normal conversation, as long as they didn’t touch me. Yes, most people, especially men, are taller than me. But most of them don’t trigger a panic attack. I only react to men who are as tall as Brian had been, and who have significant muscle mass.
Roman looks nothing like Brian, who was blond and had a surfer look about him, but they have similar height and build. Maybe if I was warned in some way, or if I knew what to expect, I wouldn’t have reacted so extremely. But I was still sleepy, and with Roman suddenly towering in front of me, I just flipped.
I have to get out of this room. There is still work to do, people to deceive. I can do this.
Lifted by my self-pep talk, I get up from the bed, and with my head held high, I march out of the room.
Roman is sitting at the table, fork in one hand and holding his phone to his ear with the other.
Judging by the dark look on his face, it’s not good news. I do my best to school my features and join him, picking the chair next to him on purpose. My action says, “I’m not afraid of you. The episode from the kitchen was just a misunderstanding. Let’s pretend it never happened.”
He’s still on the phone when I sit down, but he’s been following my every step with his eyes.
Making sure that my moves are perfectly calm, I fill a glass with water and focus on the food in the middle of the table. There is a bowl of mashed potatoes, an assortment of fish, and some salads, so I take a plate and pile it up. I grab a slice of bread as well and dig in.
“I’ll be downstairs in twenty minutes,” Roman says into the phone, puts it down on the table, and resumes eating.
We eat in silence, the only sound coming from the cutlery and it’s strangely . . . domestic. I expected him to start asking about this morning, but he doesn’t even mention it, and I’m relieved.
“I sent Valentina to pick up some of your clothes,” he says finally. “They’re in a bag in the living room.”