We had been walking non-stop for hours, deep in the forest, on that densely wooded road in the Campania region of Italy. We were miles away from the turquoise sea of Positano, but the trace of that salty wind was still on my nose. We had pulled into an abandoned path; All around us smelled of pine, laurel and wild thyme. Leaves were crunching under our feet, and an owl was hooting monotonously in the distance. The sun had already set, only the headlights of the car and the faint glow of my phone remained.
Boris was leaning against the car. He was smoking his cigarette slowly, with his back against the hood of the black SUV, his arms crossed over his chest. He was muttering something with a Russian accent – the same topic, the same warning. "Evelyn, when this is over, I won't leave you. Do you understand?" That deep, husky tone in his voice, as always, hit me like a punch in the gut. It's both scary and… attractive. Damn it, why was I still listening to him?
I was working on the rear trunk. I was rearranging the bags, checking the spare magazines, folding the map. My hands were shaking, but I didn't show it to him. My heart was beating like crazy in my chest. Being next to this man was both the safest place and the most dangerous place. What promises did we make to each other in that hotel room in Rome last week? We said, "Never lie again." But I knew that the lies were still among us.
I heard your steps. Heavy, sure, hunter-like. "Evelyn," he called again, his voice closer this time. "Look at me. Talk to me."
I'm back. At that exact moment, when he took one step closer to me. I took my hand out of the bag. The Glock was cold, a familiar weight in my palm. I cocked the barrel, took aim, and pulled the trigger.
Bam.
One shot. It hit his shoulder. The bullet pierced the flesh, blood immediately gushing out – dark, hot, instantly soaking his black T-shirt. Boris did not falter. On the contrary, he stopped, slowly bent his head and examined his wound. Then he raised his eyes. Those gray-blue eyes… like a storm, like lightning. He locked eyes directly with me. And he smiled.
He smiledgod.
The corners of his lips turned up, that dangerous, wounded smile. His teeth are white, he is calm despite his bloody shoulder. "What are you doing, Evelyn?" he asked. His voice didn't shake at all. On the contrary, it looked like he was having fun. "Did you really want to shoot me… or did you just want to get my attention?"
He continued to approach. With every step, drops of blood fell on the ground. The leaves were sucking the blood. I didn't move. I was still holding the gun in my hand, but I had lowered it. My heart was beating in my ears. Fear? Excitement? Both of them were squeezing my throat at the same time. I waited for him to come. I wanted him to come closer, to come right next to me.
And it came.
He caught my neck with two steps left. His fingers are strong, calloused, warm. He pulled me towards him – hard, merciless. The pressure on my neck was taking my breath away, but it was also igniting something inside me. His lips stuck to mine. A wild, hungry, angry kiss. His teeth bit my lower lip, and the taste of blood spread into my mouth - whether it was my blood or from his shoulder, I couldn't tell anymore. I responded. In spades. Our tongues collided, like we were fighting. I was kissing and biting him too. His hands grabbed my waist and leaned me against the car. The metal was cold, and I shivered when it touched my back.
One of my hands went around his neck. I dug my nails into the back of his neck and pulled his hair. My other hand… went to his shoulder. I stepped on the spot where the bullet entered. The palm of my hand filled with warm blood. I pressed my fingers to the wound and squeezed it. Deeper, more painful.
Boris's eyes closed for a moment. He grimaced in pain, his jaw clenched, a low growl escaping his throat. His body tensed, his fingers squeezing my neck tighter – as if he was punishing me. But he didn't let go. He didn't care. On the contrary, he deepened the kiss even more. As he moved his tongue around my mouth, he moaned, a moan of pleasure mixed with pain. His hardness was touching my belly, pulsing even through his jeans. He wanted me despite his bleeding shoulder. And crazy.
"You… crazy woman," he muttered between my lips, his Russian accent thicker. "You shoot me... and then you squeeze my wound. Do you want to kill me or take me for your own?"
I didn't answer. I just squeezed the wound harder. Blood was seeping through my fingers, hot and sticky. Boris stopped breathing for a moment and pressed his forehead to mine. His eyes were half closed, his eyelashes trembling. But his smile was still there. That dangerous, evil smile.
"Go on," he whispered. "Harder. Hurt, Evelyn. But don't let go."
The silence of the forest was filled only with our breathing and the rustle of leaves. A branch broke in the distance but we didn't care. There was only his blood, his lips, his pain and my shaking hands. Was this love? Or is it the darkest game we play to destroy each other?
I didn't know.