Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78511 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78511 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
I let out a chuckle as we join the other attendees.
Instructor Yelena glances at the group, then says, “Aurora, you’re with Misha. He’s going to help you get over your claustrophobia. The rest of you follow me.”
With a gaping mouth, I turn to Misha. “We’re doing what?”
He waits for everyone to head into the warehouse, then asks, “You trust me, right?”
“Not enough to be stuck in a small space,” I mutter.
Misha gestures toward the backdoor. “Come on. I promise it’s not as bad as you think.”
When we walk into the warehouse, we head to the back where the crates are.
“I’m not getting into a crate.” I shake my head at him. “There’s no way.”
He grips hold of my arm and pulls me into the maze. We stop in front of a random crate, and I watch as Misha takes the front panel off.
He crouches and crawls inside, then sitting down, he pats the tiny space next to him. “Get your ass in here. We’re leaving it open.”
Taking a deep breath, I crawl in next to him. “How is this going to help?”
“By gradually being exposed to small spaces, you’ll become desensitized.”
I turn my head to look at him. “How do you know it will work?”
“Because I’ve kind of been through it.”
My lips part. “For what?”
He thinks for a moment, then says, “My situation was very different from yours. I was desensitized to taking a life. At first, it fucked with my head, so they forced me to take care of all the kills. After a while, it didn’t matter anymore.”
Oh. My. God.
I can only stare at Misha as his words sink in.
We’ve never talked about his job as an enforcer, and I don’t know how to approach the subject.
His eyes drift over my face. “What do you want to ask?”
Paula’s scream echoes through the building, then I hear Abbie curse, “I’m going to rip your crazy-ass dick off. Motherfucker, that hurts.”
“Stop cursing him and fight back, Miss Sartori!” Instructor Yelena shouts.
“Aurora,” Misha says to get my attention back on him. “What’s the question?”
My teeth tug at my bottom lip, then I just gather the courage and ask, “Don’t you feel guilty when you kill someone?”
He shrugs. “At first, I did, but with time they all became jobs that had to be done. If I have to think about every person I killed, I’ll never sleep a day.”
Unable to hold the question in, I ask, “Aren’t you afraid of dying?”
Misha’s eyes lock with mine. “I don’t plan on dying young.”
“Yes, but something could go wrong. Doesn’t that cross your mind?”
He shakes his head. “No. I’ve trained too fucking hard, and I have Alek and Armani watching my back. If I go on a mission worrying if something will go wrong, I’ll end up dead.”
Before I can ask another question, Misha grabs the panel and leans it against the crate, so it blocks out some of the light.
I feel a twinge of anxiety in my chest, but knowing I’m not completely shut in, it’s manageable.
He watches me before he asks, “How are you holding up?”
“I know I can get out, so it’s not really bothering me.”
Moving out of the crate, he walks away, then I hear him shout, “Alek.”
When Misha returns, I ask, “Why are you calling Alek?”
“So he can shut us in the crate.”
“Are you insane?”
“Not legally, though I’ve never been tested,” he jokes as he sits down beside me.
When Alek reaches the crate, Misha says, “Close the panel.”
“Sure thing.”
My anxiety spikes a little as we’re plunged into darkness, then I hear Alek’s muffled voice, “Use protection, kids.”
I take a deep breath, then ask, “How will we get out?”
“We have to wait for Alek to decide we’ve been in here long enough,” Misha answers, his voice sounding intimate in the dark.
“That can take hours!”
“Yep,” he murmurs.
I shift, but I can’t move much because I’m squashed between Misha’s huge body and the wood panel.
“How are you holding up?” he asks.
“It’s still bearable.” This time I refrain from saying it’s because he’s sitting next to me. I don’t want to give him the idea to leave me alone in the crate.
“What is it about small spaces that causes you to have an anxiety attack?”
“It’s being stuck and never getting out of the space,” I answer.
I try to move again, and when I can’t, my anxiety spikes enough to make my heartbeat speed up.
I take deep breaths, and Misha must hear it because he asks, “What’s making you panic?”
“I can’t move,” I admit.
“Focus on my voice,” he murmurs, his tone calm. “Relax your muscles and inhale slowly.”
I do as he says, but it’s not helping. “I need to move.”
“You can’t. We’re stuck.”
“Misha,” I whimper, my breaths coming faster and faster. “I can’t do this.”
He kicks at the panel, and when it falls to the floor, I scramble out of the tiny space and suck in desperate breaths of air.