Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 122242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Why is Tarasova so sure her mom will come back for her?
Nothing I've found thus far holds any answers on that front. Her mom was physically and emotionally abusive. Not even Faith has any illusions about the woman having any soft feelings for her. I doubt Tarasova has any either. So what does he know that I don't?
I have a feeling finding the answer to that question is the key to giving her the freedom she so desperately craves. It might tear my heart out of my chest to watch her walk away…but letting her go is the only way to prove to her that I'm nothing like Tarasova.
"Más tira el amor que una yunta de bueyes," I mutter the old idiom about love being a strong motivator, returning her file to the drawer and climbing to my feet to go to bed.
I stop in shock right outside her bedroom.
For the first time in days, her door isn't closed against me.
It's standing wide open.
Chapter Ten
Faith
"Are you nervous, angel?" Octavio asks, watching from a chair as I pace in restless circles around the cramped examination room at the doctor's office.
"No." I frown, unease drifting through me. "Yes. I don't know." Except for at the hospital, I can't remember the last time I saw a doctor. Have I ever seen one? I’m not sure. But I know I don't like being poked and prodded and stared at like a science experiment. It's unnerving.
At least Octavio isn't making me see the same man I saw at the hospital. I'm still mad at him for telling Octavio my secrets.
"Estoy aquí, conejita." Octavio pushes to his feet and reaches out to snag my arm. He looms over me, but I don't feel threatened or small. Just…peaceful.
"Can't you wait outside?" I ask, pulling away from him and quickly pacing to the opposite side of the tiny room.
His brows pull down, hurt washing through his sepia eyes.
"Sorry." I lean my forehead up against the wall, trying to calm my nerves. "I didn't mean that."
"You're afraid," he guesses. When I don't say anything, he prowls toward me, his footfalls loud against the gleaming linoleum. He turns me slowly to face him and then takes a step back, giving me space.
He's been giving me a lot of that the last couple of days, always leaving plenty of room between us. I think I hurt him the other night, but I don't know how to take it back now. I've been leaving my door open, hoping he would understand that I'm sorry for what I said and that I trust him as much as I can…but he hasn't even mentioned it. He hasn't brought up what I said about what my mother did to Nikolai either. Instead, we do this careful dance around one another every day. It's making me crazy.
"Do you remember the Apostles' Creed?" Patience and understanding reflect in his beautiful eyes as he stares down at me. He looks so damn handsome today. His sharp jawline and full lips are lethal, especially paired with his crisp blue button-up and faded jeans.
Does he even realize how hot he is? Probably not. I don't think he even cared how the women in the waiting room and the nurses all stared at him. He was too busy glowering at everyone who got too close to me to bother with anyone else.
"Angel?" He quirks a brow.
What was the question? The Apostles' Creed? Oh, right.
"Um, yes. I remember." I've been saying it every night before bed, and again each time I wake up from yet another nightmare. I'm not even sure if I believe in God. It seems to me that, if there is an all-powerful being out there, he's not doing a very good job of being a beacon of light for humanity. Or maybe we're not doing a very good job following him. Either way, I think maybe he's given up on us ever getting it right and has washed his hands of us. But I still repeat the prayer like it'll save me. Even if it doesn't lessen the fear quaking through me, it gives me something else to focus on. I suppose that's the point, anyway, isn’t it?
"Recite it for me."
"In Russian or English?"
One dark brow climbs a little higher. "You remember both?"
I nod.
"English first."
I take a deep breath and recite the prayer to him.
"Very good," Octavio murmurs like he's impressed. "Now in Russian."
I murmur the words in Russian, trying to make sure my accent is right. Even though my mother was part Russian, she never spoke the language. I learned most of what I know from watching and listening to Nikolai and his men. I learned a lot of things from listening to them, most of which I'd kill to forget.
"You have an excellent memory," Octavio says. There's a question in his gaze, like he wants to know how I remembered the prayer. It's a skill I picked up a long time ago, one that helped keep me alive. I found that you learn a lot about people if you listen and remember. It helped me know when to make myself scarce and when Nikolai’s men were less likely to punish me for some perceived misdeed.