PIPER
Timofey places the wine and glasses on his bedside table. A moment later, I feel his fingers on my spine. He doesn't need to touch me to zip up the dress, but I'm too busy trying to keep my legs from buckling to question his methodology.
An electrical current zips through me. A shiver follows. As if trying to warm me with his hand, Timofey presses his entire palm to my exposed back.
"Sit down," he orders. His voice is quiet but firm.
"But I need—" I lift my arm weakly over my shoulder to gesture to the zipper. "I need to be zipped. I need—"
"You need to sit down," he repeats, directing me towards his bed. The armchair is covered in discarded dresses. "You're about to pass out, and I'm tired of saving you."
I'm shaking. Adrenaline and deception are a lethal mixed cocktail in my veins. Timofey can probably see right through me.
He knows what I've done.
He knows I'm trying to escape.
