The lock on the door clicks, the first real sound I’ve heard in hours.
I sit up on the bed, swiping at my face to erase any trace of tears.
The door swings open, and the blond guard steps inside, carrying the same chipped bowl he always brings. The gruel inside is gray and lumpy, with the consistency of wet cement.
The smell is even worse, making the insides of my stomachswirl. It carries a putrid sour note mixed with a weird doughy scent that vaguely reminds me of Play-Doh.
I’ve only scarfed down spoonfuls here and there, doing so out of survival. Otherwise, I’d let myself starve.
He sets the bowl on the small table by the bed, his pale eyes fixed on me with a glint of cruel satisfaction. I’d expect nothing less of him or his twin brother (when he was alive).
He’s tall and lean, with ice-white blond hair slicked back from his flat, reptilian-like features. It only makes him creepier to look at and be around.
“How is Myshka feeling?” he asks without an ounce of concern. “Is she ready to atone for her sins?”
I glare at him, hardly hiding my disdain. “What sins?”
“The sovietnik has plans for you, little mouse,” he answers. “If you believe you have escaped your punishment, you are sorely mistaken. You will suffer untold amounts of pain.”
A chill racks through me that robs me of the air in my lungs.
I’d like to say I act unfazed, but that would be an outright lie. How can I when the threat is coming from Fedorov?
The same man I’ve witnessed scoop eyeballs out of sockets and strangles his pets when they misbehaved and he was tired of them.
My mind goes back to one of his girlfriends when I was first made a pet. The rumor was, he had strangled his old favorite because she talked back in front of his men, and so he had her delivered to his chambers.
Then he murdered her slowly, squeezing the life out of her while grinning in her face.
A threat from Fedorov Raguzin should always be taken with utmost seriousness.
“Get out,” I manage, my throat hoarse.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “What is the matter, Myshka? Does knowing your fate upset you?”
With his free hand, he reaches up and slides the glasses off my face.
My surroundings go blurry without them, his features melting into an indistinct smear, but I can still feel the weight of his gaze.
“You have always hidden behind these,” he says, turning the frames over in his hand. “Perhaps to disguise that you are really a beautiful woman. But we have noticed, little mouse. We have watched you grow. As we have done with Eva.”
A wave of nausea passes over me and forces bile up my throat. I keep it down with lips pressed tight, my breathing labored.
“It would be a shame,” he goes on conversationally, “if the sovietnik damaged this pretty face of yours. If he mutilated you the way he has done so many others.”
He tosses the glasses beside me on the bed and pivots on his heel for the door. I snatch them up with trembling hands.
“Enjoy your meal, little mouse,” he calls over his shoulder. “While you still can.”
The door slams shut behind him, and the lock clicks back into place.
I release a stuttered breath, my first in what feels like over a minute. Since before the blond arrived with more gruel.
Whatever Fedorov has planned for me, it can’t be good.
I have a horrible feeling I’m about to find out exactly what it is…
At least another day passes before I see anyone other than the blond enforcer.
