Page 21 of Nemesis

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. You’re the one who tried to kill me while I was unconscious. With my own belt, might I add. Not quite high-ground material, if you ask me.”

“You’re the one who got me kidnapped! You just couldn’t take no for an answer⁠—”

“Excuse me?” he interrupts, raising his brows.

My eyes have adjusted enough now to take in more details of my surroundings. Unfortunately, that means I’m also now aware of the dark stains splattered against the walls and ground. I try not to think about what substance made those marks.

“You stalked me out of the theater,” I snap, turning back to the man lounging against the far wall of the enclosure. Anger feels good. Much stronger than fear. “I told you to leave me alone, but you just couldn’t stand the sight of a woman walking away from you, could you?”

His hand rises between us. “Whoa. First of all, I was trying to apologize for the comment you overheard at the party. Second, I tried to protect you. I could’ve gotten out of there easy if it weren’t for your ungrateful ass.”

I glare his way. Other than a few bloodstains on his white dress shirt and a little swelling around his nose and jaw, he looks…fine. Better than fine. He still looks like his handsome, pompous self, even in this stuffy cage. That pisses me off all the more.

“You know what? Maybe we don’t need to talk.” I turn, stomping over to the other side of the space and slide down the wall until my butt hits the floor.

A flash of his bright eyes momentarily breaks up the darkness. “Didn’t think you had that ability.”

My eyebrows fold down in irritation, but I refuse to look at his stupid face again. Maybe I can reason with our captors. Convince them I have nothing to do with these Bratva things. Maybe they’ll let me leave once they realize all I have to my name is the stale packet of crackers stashed in my purse and a sparse apartment with a notice to vacate stamped on the door.

A foolish fantasy, the voice in my head whispers. You know firsthand what opportunistic men do with a helpless woman behind closed doors.

“I am sorry, for what it’s worth,” a low voice murmurs, thick with accent and honesty. I glance up, only to find those bright blue eyes already flickering my direction through the darkness. “For getting you involved.”

I tilt my head, waiting for the joke to land, but his genuine expression throws me off guard. With every breath, the cool bite in the air settles the worst of my panic. It’s almost like my body already ran through its adrenaline stores, leaving me in a useless puddle of exhausted terror.

“I’m sorry for trying to kill you in your sleep,” I mutter back, determined to end my life with more forgiveness than it began with.

A snort cracks through my earnest words.

“Something funny?”

His mouth opens in a small O, as if weighing how best to respond.

A soft thud rumbles through the air, followed by the high-pitched squeak of a nearby door.

Every inch of calmness I’ve achieved dissipates with that little sound. Vasiliy spurs into action, jumping up. He steps in front of me before settling into a casual stance that hides most of the toned muscles flexing in his back. I want to prepare for what’s to come, meet our attackers on my own two feet, but my legs are a blur of vibration against the dark floor. I can hear my own heart’s incessant beat, faster and faster.

Footsteps slap across the floor in the distance.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so tense in my life. I focus on the sight of Vasiliy’s hand, curling into a fist one finger at a time.

We’ve been in tougher spots than this, Octavia. Breathe. Think. Attack.

When the door on the other side of the dark room finally creaks open, my stomach flips.

Then I hear a soft click, and my sight goes blind, assaulted by a sudden stream of light. It takes way too long to adjust and identify the source: a small bulb dangling from the ceiling. Dull yellow illuminates the metal chair, sitting empty on the other side of the bars.

When I finally find the courage to look at the man’s face, a bolt of confusion overtakes me. I’m not sure why I had assumed I’d recognize our captor. I guess my mind had begun stacking every enemy I’ve made throughout my short, shitty life and weighing the likelihood of them taking me hostage.

Secretly, I’d been holding out hope that Vasiliy was wrong about the whole Bratva thing. Random people get kidnapped all the time, right? Although it’s usually little old ladies on the news with family to ransom small fortunes from, not broke dancers barely scraping by. Unfortunately, as I inspect the strange man lingering by the doorway, I don’t feel a single pinch of recognition. That feels scarier, somehow.

How does one reason with a captor they don’t even know?

The man strolls past the bulb, closing the distance to the cell. I instinctually lurch back, but I’m already plastered against the wall with nowhere to go.

His light brown hair and dull features are so…normal. He’s large, almost as big as my cellmate.

He’s just a man, Octavia. Men are pathetic. Nothing to be scared of.