8. Lev

8

LEV

Obsession is often described as having a persistent disturbing preoccupation with an often unreasonable idea or feeling.

I couldn’t disagree more.

My preoccupation with keeping Elle safe is not disturbing, nor unreasonable. It’s a necessity .

She was taken from right under my nose, tied up like an animal and almost raped. Bile burns my throat as I try not to think of her lying on that bed as that man ran his hands over her perfect skin.

He never should have gotten close enough to touch her, to make her scream?—

I press my hands into my eyes, trying to force the memory away.

My obsession used to be fueled by something close to lust but after recent events, my actions are fueled more by guilt.

Guilt that is so strong it’s eating me alive.

But I deserve nothing less. After all, that fucker got close enough to touch her because of me. Elle suffered because of me, and I will never forgive myself.

Because of that guilt, I live and breathe Elle Conti. Day and night, wherever she goes, I go.

I watch her as she buries herself beneath her covers at night and sleeps. I watch her as she travels on the subway to work, enjoying her favorite mocha latte as she listens to a podcast. Even when she met up with a friend for coffee one day before work, I was there.

I’m in desperate need of sleep and a proper meal, but every time I think of leaving Elle alone, I’m terrified someone is going to take her away from me.

I fight through the tiredness because I can’t bear the thought of causing her any more pain.

Because she is in pain.

She might not look like it on the outside, with her bright smile and carefree attitude, but I know her. Perhaps better than she knows herself.

I notice the way the shadow passes over her face when she thinks no one is watching. The way she places her hand on her chest, gently tapping her fingers to try and distract herself from the anxiety that is no doubt bubbling up inside her.

It kills me to know that I can’t ever be the one to comfort her when she needs it the most. Especially at night, when the nightmares jolt her awake, leaving her shaking and gasping for breath.

I have no doubt that she is reliving the night in the motel, just like I am whenever sleep manages to pull me under. The sound of her desperate cries in the dark has me almost breaking my rule of staying hidden, because I hate knowing she’s suffering alone.

I know all too well what that’s like.

I wish she could know how sorry I am, how much I wish it had never happened. My father always told me that I was a useless waste of space and as I listen to Elle’s cries, I know he’s right.

I should have done better, and I will spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to her.

Last night, I was so convinced that a man had been following Elle that I couldn’t stand to wait across the street from the hospital until she finished her shift.

My feet moved of their own accord, and I found myself sitting for hours in the ER, pretending to be with a patient, just so I could keep an eye on her.

Watching Elle work was mesmerizing. I was in awe of how calm she was when dealing with her patients, how she managed to reassure them, despite being in such a hectic environment. It made me wonder how much of her soft and caring persona is a result of the trauma she suffered as a child.

Trauma that I relive every single day.

When sleep eventually pulls me under, I often dream that Elle never made it out of the fire. I’m always frozen in place, forced to watch as Elle becomes consumed by the flames. I watch her beautiful mahogany hair burn, and her flawless skin melt off her bon?—

“Can I get you anything else?”

I blink to find a waitress standing over me, blocking Elle from view.

“Move.” I wave my hand at her as I try to peer around to make sure Elle is still in her spot by the window.

“You don’t have to be so rude, you know?” The waitress huffs, turns on her heels, and walks away.

A few customers nearby glance in my direction, and I readjust my hat, pulling the brim lower over my eyes to hide my face.

Thankfully, Elle is too lost in her book to have noticed, and I breathe a sigh of relief that I didn’t give myself away.

Today is one of Elle’s rare days off.

I followed her into a coffee shop, taking a seat a few tables behind her. Close enough to intervene should something happen, but not too close that she grows suspicious of my presence. Not that she ever notices me.

I wonder if she can sense I’m nearby. After all, I let it slip that I had been following her for years. Though, I didn’t get the impression that she was frightened by my confession. If anything, she seemed comforted by it.

It’s good to see Elle relax a little. She works incredibly hard and very rarely takes time for herself, always giving her time and energy to others’ needs before her own. Despite the stack of books beside her bed and the various overflowing bookshelves in her apartment, I hardly catch her reading, though it’s clear she loves it.

I take comfort in the knowledge that we have that in common. When I was younger, I would often steal books from my father’s personal collection and spend the hours when I was meant to be sleeping lost in fictional worlds filled with happy families.

Many of the books I stole were in Russian and while I could speak the language fluently, I was never taught how to read it.

I was never taught how to read, period.

My father sent my siblings to the best schools in the country, and I was left behind, locked away in that hell hole that I was supposed to call home. While my brother and sister got to learn mathematics and history, I learned how to reset a dislocated shoulder and how to stitch up a wound with a paperclip and some dental floss.

Everything I learned, I taught myself from the books I was able to steal and read at night.

That is, when I was allowed to have a light.

My eyelids grow heavy despite the triple espresso I just consumed.

I really need to get some sleep. Elle is likely to spend the night in her apartment, which is in one of the safer neighborhoods in the city. Maybe I could catch a few hours tonight…

My current burner phone buzzes in my pocket, and I quickly pull it out, glancing at the screen to see Pyotr’s name flashing across it.

Without taking my eyes off Elle, I answer the call and bring the phone to my ear.

“Igor’s on the move. He was spotted visiting the hideout of the gang that was behind Elle’s kidnapping.”

I tense. While I’m not surprised that my father is up to something, the knowledge that he is involved with this gang is unlikely to be a coincidence. I’ve never trusted my father, and his previous disagreements with the Conti mafia aren’t exactly a secret.

I need to make sure that he was not involved in what happened to Elle, but if he’s been seen entering the hideout, then I can’t rule it out.

Frankly, anything is possible when it comes to Igor.

“I need you to keep following him,” I mutter under my breath as I watch Elle fiddle with the end of her ponytail as she reads.

The sunlight streaming through the window brings out the slight red and gold tones in her hair, and I don’t miss the way a few of the male customers glance in her direction .

I sink my nails into my palm to try and kill the urge to slam my fists in their jaws.

“I’ll keep you updated,” Pyotr promises me.

“I appreciate that. And what of Alexei Koslov?”

Having Pyotr trail the eldest Koslov brother isn’t unusual, considering the fact that the Bratva Pahkan has been trying to find me for years. He’s come close a few times, which is why I never keep my apartments in the city for longer than a few months.

I can’t risk him finding me, because I know if he does, I won’t live long enough to tell him my side of the story.

The story in which I murdered his parents.

“Nothing to report there, I’m afraid.”

Elle glances around, and I stiffen.

She’s closed her book, and I know in a few minutes, she’ll be getting up to leave.

“And what about the brother?” My voice goes even lower. “The one that broke into my old apartment?”

“He’s not gone back. It seems like they might have given up for the time being.”

I know better than to think the Koslovs have given up on their search for me. They’ll want revenge, and they will stop at nothing to get it.

“I appreciate this,Pyotr.”

“Be safe, Lev,” my friend says before the phone goes dead.

Letting out a sigh of frustration at the knowledge that my father might be somehow involved in Elle’s kidnapping, I tuck my phone back into my pocket and pull out Elle’s necklace that I’ve been holding on to for the past few weeks.

As I sneak a glance at her, I see her hand absentmindedly rub at her neck, a habit I’ve caught her doing many times. Except, the delicate gold chain that she normally fiddles with whenever she appears anxious is currently in my possession.

Over the years, I’ve often wondered what Elle kept inside the pendant that she keeps so close to her heart. So, when I found the necklace on the back seat of my car, I gave in to my curiosity and opened up the pendant.

Inside is a photo of Elle and her mother from when she was a child, around the age she was when I first met her all those years ago…

I feel a pang of guilt for hanging on to it for so long, knowing how much it means to Elle, but I’ve secretly enjoyed carrying a piece of her around with me like this because it’s as close as I’ll ever be able to get to her.

I wish I could have more, but I’ve already crossed too many lines when it comes to Elle. While it’s unlikely that she remembers me from all those years ago, I can’t risk taking any chances. My identity needs to remain a secret if I want to stay alive long enough to protect Elle.

We never should’ve kissed. I became so caught up in it that she could have easily slipped the blindfold off, and it would have been game over.

I can’t afford to let my guard down like that again. If she were to learn who I am and it got back to Alexei…

My body shudders at the thought.

My attention snaps in Elle’s direction as she gets to her feet, carefully packing her book away into her bag and shrugging on her coat.

Time to go.

I wrap the delicate gold chain into a ball and slip it back into my pocket, excited at the prospect of having an excuse to visit her later.

It won’t be the first time I’ve been in her room while she’s been asleep, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.