Page 106 of Brutal Vows

The man nods. “Chertnikov not fuck this.”

He flicks her burnt cheek with a fingertip, and rage simmers in me. That fucker.

Masha doesn’t even flinch. She sighs and says something in Russian, then switches to English. “His son did.”

A brow shoots up, and the Russian grips her chin, forcing her to look up at him. “He has no sons left.”

“Dimitri Mikhailov. His illegitimate son. His only living son. Back there is Chertnikov’s only living grandchild.” She says something in Russian, probably repeating herself to make sure he understands.

The men look at each other. Shrug nonchalantly, but I can read them. So fucking classic. They just confirmed the one thing they were unsure of. What they don’t know is Masha is lying. Let’s keep it that way.

They speak to each other in Russian, starting to argue, and I don’t follow, but Masha smirks.

“They need to let ‘head office’ know,” she translates softly for me. “But there’s zero internet here and their satellite phone isn’t working. They have no backup. Fucking amateurs. They’d need to hike twenty kilometers to where there’s one bar of reception. By the way, if you shoot through the forest, going straight north, you cut out fifteen of those kilometers. Meet up with the main road. Just saying.” She tilts her chin up, as if she just told me where I’ll find the last hidden Easter egg.

One bike. In the barn. Two helmets.

Fuck. She’s telling me her escape plan. But there are four of us.

“One of them should definitely go,” I say as they keep bickering. Leave me only one man to eliminate.

I take stock of the room again, taking in details I missed earlier. Their handguns are now discarded on the table, next to a half-eaten loaf of rye bread with a hunting knife pierced into it. Some salami-like meat and a triangle of cheese. Two hunting rifles lean against a far wall, well out of reach. There’s a bookshelf with candles, several flashlights, and a first-aid kit. The one Russian reaches for another bottle of vodka and throws the empty one into the fire, making sparks dance up into the chimney. Just men being men. I have no expectations of these guys getting drunk on a bottle of vodka. Russians can stomach a lot of the shit before they even get tipsy. They drink it like water.

“Now you,” he says as he hands a tumbler to his friend. “Talk.”

“What do you want to know?” I ask, still clueless how I’m going to get us out of here.

“Who you work for?”

“Myself.” That’s no lie.

“What job.”

Well…what would they like to hear? Sticking to the truth but keeping it vague is usually the best option.

“Porn,” I say, looking him dead in the eye.

The man laughs, turns to say something to his friend in Russian.

“You make porn for a living?” Masha asks, playing into my game.

“Not exactly, but I’m always up for a good time.”

“Your girlfriend. She make porn?” the other Russian asks, stepping closer, and I can see where their minds are going. Us putting on a show for them. Them taking turns with Milana while I’m forced to watch. My blood boils, but I keep a poker face.

“I don’t mix business with pleasure.”

At this, the man cocks a brow, leans back to pluck the knife from the bread, and without ceremony slices my winter jacket open from the neck straight to the bottom. He folds it open, revealing my sweater. He cuts through it too. Then my fucking T-shirt. Dude.

I breathe, that blade way too close for comfort. He folds the fabric away from my body, revealing my chest, peels away the layers from my shoulders leaving me as exposed as he can, what with my hands strapped to the chair.

The silence in the room becomes like the breath I’m holding, already straining for air. All eyes are on me, on the blade, and what the fucker is going to do next.

“Good shape. Man who exercise much. Too much.” He runs the blade’s tip over my shoulder muscles, from my traps to my deltoids, to caress the sharp edge down my biceps. A chill spreads like frost over my body. My stomach churns. “Big cock, eh?”

I huff, overly conscious of Masha’s one eye wide on me, her compulsive swallowing. How she’s jerking against her bonds. Not my plan, either, sweetheart.

“Yep,” I say, with just enough brag in my voice. “I’d like to keep it that way if you don’t mind.”