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When I reach him, he takes my chin in hand and tips my head up so he can look in my eyes.
I try to look away, but he jerks my chin so I look back at him. He doesn’t say anything at first, but looks at me for long minutes before he says, “What’s the capital of America?”
I blink.
“Washington D.C.,” I say, bewildered.
“Tell me how your father died.”
I swallow. This one’s harder. “He was killed in a freak car accident,” I tell him, and I want to look away from him, but I can’t. My heartbeat accelerates. I don’t want to talk about this.
“And your mother?” he asks.
“She died years ago. Please. I don’t like talking about this.”
Please don’t ask about my sister.
Please don’t ask about my sister.
“Don’t like talking about this?” he asks, peering into my eyes with barely-contained anger. “You’re a liar.”
“What?” I whisper, my pulse accelerating because this tone means danger.
“You have no psychological damage,” he says. “I don’t believe it. You’re no more mentally retarded than I’m a girl.”
“You think I wanted to be in that institution?” I whisper, thinking of the real Calina, hoping against all hope that she’s safe and somehow, somehow happy. He stares, not saying anything for so long, I begin to blink rapidly, nervous, wishing I could chew my nails but if I do he’ll punish me.
“I don’t know why you were there,” he says finally, biting out the words as if they taste rancid. “But you stole from me and my brothers so proficiently I know you’re no imbecile. I can fathom a guess as to why you were there, but it would just be that. A guess. You are bright,” he says, “and fully culpable for your actions.”
His words make a rock settle in the pit of my stomach.
Fully culpable for your actions.
I think of Calina, how she responds when pressured. What would she do in a situation like this? When she’s afraid, she tears at her hair and clothes and runs her fingers down her arms, scraping the skin until it bleeds. If I’m to assume her personality and respond that way, I have to behave that way consistently. And I don’t want to. It’s exhausting. Troubling. And I’m not getting anywhere with him by fooling him anyway.
“There is more to the mind than you can see, you know,” I say, trying to keep my temper under control but failing. “You don’t know what I suffer. You don’t know what I hear.”
But his lips only pull into a twisted smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Kisa, what you suffer hasn’t even begun yet. Every one of the men here suffer. Every one of us wrestles demons.” He leans in, and to my shock, pulls my face to his and presses his cheek to mine. It both thrills and scares me, which is likely exactly his intent. I stifle a scream when he runs his tongue along my cheek and to my earlobe, then fully pulls it between his teeth and bites down so hard I scream and try to push him away on instinct. He ignores me and whispers in my ear, “Suffering doesn’t make you special.”
I shudder, pulling away from him, but he holds me tight.
“The games are over, Calina.”
What am I playing at here? I came here prepared to give my life over for my sister. I came here prepared to die, yet he tosses me in a cell-like room and I start flailing like a child.
My own actions sicken me.
I want to be brave. I told myself I would be.
When he gives me room to move, I look in his eyes, ignoring the way he holds me like a possessive lover. Men don’t touch me like this. The touch is foreign, but there’s too much between us for me to let my mind go there now. Too much at stake. I ignore his hard, strong body pressed up against mine. His heat and touch, the way his breath blows away the hair on my neck. The way my body wants to recognize our closeness as more than a power move. I have a job to do, and—
No. This is no more than a job. Retribution for Calina.
If I cooperate, I pay off that debt sooner.
In theory.
But what happens when I’ve paid it? He hasn’t said.
If I don’t pay it, my death is my penalty. There is only one choice.
When his phone rings, he pulls away. He points in silence to the edge of the bed for me to sit, and since I’ve decided I need to pay off this debt and stop fucking around, I sit. He brings the phone up to his ear, eyes fixed on me. Because he speaks in Russian, I have no clue what he says, but I watch as his hand balls into a fist and he grips the phone like he’s going to snap it in two.
