Page 76 of Bratva Sacrifice

She does not speak to the therapist I engaged for her. She exists. She endures, but this is all.

I tell her of my love for her every day, every night, but she does not respond. My words might as well be wind, and they flow over her and away. We share a room, a bed. I think she dreads that one day I will touch her intimately. I think I dread that, too. I know already that she will not respond. She will only endure.

She does not protest my touch. She follows my orders. Her defiance has come to an end, and now she merely teeters through the paces of life like a puppet on strings. There is so little of her left now. Her light—her life—ended in the cold darkness of the pit.

There are no more escape attempts. She spends her days staring sightlessly out of the window of the library, with a book she does not read on her lap. She does not interact with the staff. Though she has access to the outside once again, she does not lounge in the sun. She does not swim. She does not ask to go out, to buy books. She does not use the new computer I purchased for her. She does not use her phone.

She treats herself like a prisoner. Perhaps because I made her into one.

“Come to me,” I say, and she does. Of course she does. She lets me draw her across my lap, lets me sink my hand into her hair, tuck her head against my chest. But it is so empty without her warmth, without her hands to hold me back. That is something I cannot take from her. She has to choose it—and she will not do this.

Every day I ask her that same question, and every day she gives me the same answer, because I have already denied her the one thing she has asked of me. So today, at last, I ask of her something else.

“Tell me, then, koshechka,” I say into the soft hair near her temple. “Tell me where you would go. What you would do.”

Her breath catches in her throat. “Somewhere sunny,” she says at last, and there is a substantial quality to her voice that has been missing these last weeks. “Close to the beach. Maybe close enough to walk.”

I could give her that. I have real estate all over the world.

“I would have a pet. A cat,” she says, and I think of the tiny apartment she lived in before I found her and of her motel in Minneapolis. Places ill-suited to the presence of a pet.

“You can have a cat if you want one, koshechka. Or a dog.” My fingers trace the curve of her cheek. “I will find you a tiger if you like.” I have no particular liking for pets, but Katya can have whatever she pleases.

She gives a slow shake of her head. I cannot bribe her with animals. I cannot earn back her love with gifts she does not want from me.

“Would you teach, to support yourself and this cat of yours?” I ask.

“Yes,” she breathes, and it sounds like she is dreaming of it. “Elementary school. Like mom.” She enjoyed her barista job in Minneapolis, liked her coworkers, her boss. If she had tried, then, to get a job with her credentials, she would have been too easily located by her family. But they are no longer a concern, and yes—Katya could use that degree she earned. She could have this dream she has worked for at last.

Her voice grows softer, but that warmth is pervasive. “I’d go to the beach on weekends. See movies. Visit museums. Make friends.”

All things she has long been denied. Of course she would want friends. There are not friends in my world. There are staff. There are men beneath my command. And there are enemies. She wants someone to laugh with, to talk with. Things she no longer does with me.

I stroke her hair. “It sounds peaceful,” I say. And I know it now, that that is what she wants above all else. Peace. Something she has not had since before her mother died. Not from her family. Not from me.

“Yes,” she says. “Peaceful.” But the warmth has left her voice. I hear that fragile dream break and crumble to ashes.

It is the moment I know that for her dream to live, mine will have to die.

Chapter Thirty Seven

Catalina

I’m going out,” Alexei says. “Dress warm today, koshechka.”

It’s an order, not a question. I don’t respond. There is not much difference between one day and another, and the temperature can be adjusted with a dial. I don’t feel much like getting out of bed, anyway.

The bed depresses next to me. Alexei’s broad shoulders block the light streaming through the window. I don’t flinch when he touches me. It never hurts, physically. But it still hurts.

I wonder if this is what the rest of my life will be like. However long it is.

“Anatoli will come for you in an hour.” His hand finds my waist through the blankets. “Dress warm,” he reiterates. “It is cold out today.”

Outside. Something in the vicinity of my heart lifts for a moment, only to crash once more. I haven’t been out of the house in more than a month. Not since I was taken. It’s impossible to say if it’s for my safety, or to keep me confined. A captive held in a gilded cage.

It’s a bribe. A consolation prize. A quick jaunt to the shops and then back once more into my prison. Anatoli serves as my jailer by proxy. The weight of Alexei’s hand on my waist is just as heavy as the manacle that was once fastened around my ankle. I can still feel it, sometimes. The scabs have gone, but the scar remains. It itches sometimes; that peculiar itch of newly-healed flesh. I’ve scraped it raw more times than I can count. Alexei fusses at me when I do, but still bandages me back up.

They don’t make the sort of bandages I truly need.