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The scarred man enters a moment later, wearing fresh clothes and looking like he hasn’t given my comfort a second thought since he left me. His lackeys carry a mean-looking tray of knives and torture devices into the room behind him, which they set beneath the floodlight beside me.
I eye the tools, my stomach quivering as they glint maliciously. So, he wasn’t joking about cutting me up and sending pieces of me to my father. I figured it was too much to hope that he was just trying to scare me. But that didn’t stop me from wishing he would turn out to be more of the psychological-torture type.
Mind games I would gladly handle if it meant my baby would be okay.
“Ready to have a little fun?” the scarred man rasps, his good eye dancing with amusement as he catches me studying his tools. And as if he actually expects an answer to his question, he drags the gag from my mouth once more.
Ignoring the relief that closing my lips brings, I swallow hard. “Fuck you,” I croak, leaning as far forward as I can to glare daggers at him. My throat is so raw and dry from all the screaming, the inability to close my mouth, and the lack of water that I hardly sound human. But I’m not about to show him how terrified I really am. “You can go straight back to the blackest pits of hell from where you came.”
He chuckles, the sound almost wheezing from his chest, and despite my dire circumstances, I can’t help but wonder how old this man is and what could have brought him to this state. His body would indicate he’s in the prime of his life, his impressive muscles filling out his shirt, his attitude telling me he’s someone I shouldn’t be messing with.
But the taut, angry red scars that cover over half his face make it nearly impossible to tell whether he’s twenty or nearing fifty, and his lack of facial hair or customary signs of aging make it pointless. He’s been scarred beyond recognition. Though his bone structure and the small fraction of unmarked skin along with his one good eye tells me he might have been handsome once.
I could almost pity him if I didn’t hate him so intensely for what he’s done to me—what he plans on doing.
What my father could have done to make him so cruel, I have no clue.
“Why are you doing this to me?” I demand. If I’m going to die for one of my father’s many sins, I would at least like to know which one.”
“Your death is nothing personal, Alina,” he assures me, and the sound of my name rolling casually off his tongue sends a cold shiver down my spine. “At least your part in it. But unfortunately, we failed to get your brother. So, it looks like you’ll be enduring the brunt of the pain necessary to give the appropriate amount of… gravity to our message for your father. Pity. I’d hoped we might get a chance to chop Viktor up so we could just keep you as the insurance policy.”
Heart fluttering faster than a hummingbird’s wings, I struggle to keep the fear from showing. But I can see it in the way his skin buckles between his nonexistent brows. As if he almost feels sorry for me. Almost.
“I don’t normally like hurting girls,” he admits, though the casual way he says it makes me second-guess his sincerity. “So, I’ll try and show you a small mercy. How does that sound?”
I bite my tongue before a scathing comeback can slip through. This might be my only chance to strike a deal with him, and I don’t want to screw it up by blurting something that gets me in trouble.
“If you have any body part you’re particularly fond of and would like to keep… those pretty blue eyes for instance, or maybe those tempting pink lips…”
He brushes the pad of his thumb across my lower lip, and I jerk away from him as my body revolts against his touch. Bitter hatred roils up inside me as I realize he’s getting a rise out of stringing my hope along.
“Or on the opposite end of the spectrum,” he continues casually, undeterred by my reaction, “if you have somewhere you would prefer I begin, I’ll take that into consideration as well before we get started.”
The smug bastard is just toying with me. What I wouldn’t give to see him strung from a ceiling like those men my father likely tortured. If they’re like this man, then they deserve a slow, painful death.
“Hell, maybe you’ll even live through this if your father concedes quickly enough…” he teases. “Don’t worry, Alina. I won’t let you die of blood loss. I can promise you that at the very least. See, we need to keep you alive as long as possible—you know, just in case the great Sergio Sakharov decides to strike a bargain with us.”
“I hope whatever my father did to piss you off so badly is worth the kind of punishment you’re going to face,” I hiss. “They reserve a special place in hell for men who knowingly murder innocent children.”
In a flash, the brute is before me, his hand wrapped around my throat as he brings his face within an inch of mine. “You don’t think I’m already living that kind of hell, Princess? Look at me!” he snarls.
Violent trembling racks my body as icy adrenaline pounds through my veins. I don’t want to die. I don’t want my baby to die. But I really don’t want to endure the kind of suffering he’s promising me, either. And despite my desire to show him that he doesn’t scare me, I drop my gaze in defeat. Just for a moment—just long enough that he knows he’s got me.
The anger seems to vanish from his mutilated face in an instant, and the ghost of a smirk returns. “Maybe we should start with your tongue,” he purrs, much to the amusement of his comrades, “since you seem so fond of talking back.”
I glare at him, fighting the need to crawl out of my skin as he reaches for a curved, wicked-looking knife that would fit in the palm of his hand. But before he can pick it up, the dilapidated door where he and his men entered from bursts opens, stealing his attention.
A blond I don’t recognize comes bursting into the room, his broad shoulders heaving as he breathes like he just sprinted up several flights of stairs. An impressive black eye colors his left cheek, and I can’t help but wonder how he got it.
“He found us,” the blond states, his eyes flicking casually toward me before landing on the man who’s clearly in charge of this whole operation.
A meaningful look passes between the two, and my heart skips a beat as I wonder who this “he” is that has made such an impact by finding them.
A string of Russian curses issues from the scarred man’s near-nonexistent lips. “Pack up. We’re making a run for it.”
The other men jump into action, gathering supplies stored in my prison cell and hauling them out the door.
But the blond hesitates, his eyes casting to me once more before he squares his shoulders. “It’s just five of them. He’s outnumbered… Maybe we should stay and fight,” he suggests, his tone hinting that he’s nervous to even mention it.
