Painted Scars (Perfectly Imperfect #1)

Chapter 17

It’s been four days since Nina left, and I am slowly losing my mind. The men who are working as her security detail have been checking in at the end of each shift, updating me on her. It doesn’t mean anything other than to let me know she’s okay. I want her here, damn it.

At first, I thought she would go to her parents, spend the night, and be back in the morning. But when the guys notified me that she went back to her place, I knew she wouldn’t be back the following day. I hoped she’d call—maybe in another day or two. She hasn’t called. I don’t want to call her myself until I know she is ready to talk.

I fucked up. I knew that the moment I saw her standing at the basement door, wearing a look of horror and shock on her face, but I didn’t expect her to leave.

I can’t take waiting anymore, so I grab the phone from my desk and call her. She cuts the call after the second ring without answering. I call again, but all I get back is a clipped response. "We're done, Roman."

She can’t do this. I will not allow it. I grab my crutches and head for the door.

“To Nina’s place,” I bark at Kolya and duck inside the car.

When we reach Nina’s building, I take the phone and message her.

I’m outside.

I stare at the phone in my hand, waiting for it to ring. It doesn’t. Instead, a message arrives.

WE.ARE.DONE.

LEAVE.

What the fuck am I supposed do with this? Should I go up, break down her door, and make her listen to me? And what would I say? There is no way to take back what was done.

I stay in the car in front of her building. Well into the night, I finally tell Kolya to take me home. It’s too soon. I’ll give her a few more days to cool down. Then we’ll speak.

* * *

Two days later, a package arrives. It’s a big rectangular thing wrapped in brown paper, and it has my name written in Nina’s messy handwriting. I place it on my desk, trace the letters she wrote with my finger, and start tearing the paper.

It’s a painting.

A naked woman is kneeling in a middle of a field of debris and ashes, her back arched backward, arms slightly raised toward the stormy sky above. Her black hair is flowing in the wind, part of it covering her face. A long black spear is lodged in the middle of her chest, and a thick layer of red paint is trailing from the wound down her nude body. On the other end of the spear, a lone vulture is perched, as if waiting.

The self-portrait she promised me.

I get up and gaze at the lawn beyond the window until the sun sets, then go back to the desk. Placing my elbows on the wooden surface I bury my hands in my hair and stare at the painting, noticing the small details I missed the first time. The way the veins in the woman’s neck are standing out like she is straining. Red tears falling down her cheeks. Black cracks on the skin of her chest where the spear pierced it—thicker around the wound and getting thinner as they radiate away, like her body itself started breaking apart.

She is not coming back.