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Sometime, long ago, this man was innocent. Before he had the blood of others on his hands. Before he witnessed murder. Before he aligned his allegiance with criminals. Who was he then? Did he laugh? Did he have hopes and dreams? What does he enjoy? What does he long for? Are his only aspirations now tied into the brotherhood he serves?
He tells me to call him Sir. Like he’s my master.
Who is his master?
For all men serve a master.
It isn't the blond man he defers to. Maybe superficially, but they're more like equals than anything. I've heard him give him instructions. Those two may have a small difference in power or authority, but that man is not the master of him.
Who is? What is?
And as I think about this, my eyelids grow heavy.
"Can you sleep?" he says in a deep, hoarse whisper.
"Yeah," I say, but it's a lie. My head swirls with fears that won't rest.
"What if they come back?" I whisper. "They broke in once. There is no door now. What if they—"
"Hush, Olena," he replies. "They're not coming back. If anyone dares to come back and tries to lay a finger on you, they will have to get through me."
His voice holds an edge of steel that I feel right through me.
And just for then... just for that moment, I have to let myself trust him. He has stolen me. He has hurt me, and I know I haven't begun to see the extent of what he can do, and likely will do, to me. But for tonight, I can trust he will let me sleep. Just for tonight, I'll trust him to protect me.
And as I lay in his arms, as my breathing slows, I remember the first thought I had of him when he came to the coffeeshop.
This man could protect you.
For now. Just for now, he will.
And with that knowledge, I fall into a deep but fitful sleep.* * *I'm in the cell. The cold, dank cell where their prisoner lies. He's bound and broken. So broken, it tears me apart to hear the way he screams in his agony.
I've snuck in with water and a cool cloth, but tonight, I'm afraid I'll get caught. I wonder if I was followed. Do they have surveillance down here? I wear a black hood to cover me in case they see me. It takes every bit of courage I have to make my way to him. I drop to one knee and hold his hand in mine. I whisper soft, soothing words as I lift his head so he can drink, but when the water reaches his lips, he screams. Louder and louder his screams come, until he's drowning in the water, gargling in terrified agony.
I drop the glass to the floor, and it shatters as his screams continue. I reach for him, trying to tell him it's only me, trying to soothe him, but his hands reach for my neck. Broken though he may be, he's stronger than I am. I slap at his hands, but the deathlike grip doesn't budge. I'm gasping for breath, trying to pry his fingers from my throat. He doesn't move.
Silently, I plea.
I'm not the enemy.
And that's when I wake. He has one hand wrapped around my throat, though his eyes are still closed. He's remarkably powerful even in sleep. I slap at his bare shoulders, trying to get out from his grip, when he wakes.
His eyes fly open, and he pulls his hands from me so quickly I fall back. I roll out of bed and step away from him, grasping at my neck and taking in huge gulps of air.
He blinks in confusion, clumsily stumbling toward me, but I hold my hands out in front of me to protect myself.
"Don't touch me," I plead. "Please, don't. You scared me. I know you were dreaming, but you scared me."
"Olena," he says, stepping closer. I'm backing away from him, arms outstretched, although I know that I can't actually stop someone as big and strong as he is from touching me if he wants to.
"No," I whisper.
He was the one screaming.
He isn't the man he pretends to be. He isn't the executioner.
He's as tortured as I am.
Though he's stronger and powerful, he's as bound and broken as me.
Bound by his past and broken by what he's done.
"Maksym," I say on a sob, now that my breathing has slowed and I'm calmer now. "You don't need to do this."
I fall to my knees, closing my eyes against tears that threaten to fall again. I hate how weak I've become so quickly.
He's on his knees in front of me, pulling me to him.
"I have to," he whispers. "There is no other way."
"We can find one," I say on a sob. "I can help you. I can—I can pretend to return to my father. I can spy on him and report back to you."
