Page 83 of Lord of the Underworld

"What's one thing that you see?" Nikolai says sharply.

"Mother's incongruous flowered chair." My voice is wobbling, but it's there.

"Tell me two things you hear," he says, taking my hand.

"Your bossy voice," I manage. "And Maks'."

"Good." There's a bit of a smile on my brother's face. "Three things that you can feel."

"Your death grip on my hand," I say, wiping the tears off my face. "The cushion on this chair. It's fluffy. And guilt, I feel crushing guilt."

"You don't have time for the luxury of guilt," Nikolai says. He smiles wryly. "You're the best of us. Father knew it, that's why he hated you. It presented a very unattractive reflection on him." He smiles bitterly. "Frankly, I'm not liking how I look right now, either. But what matters is that we have to get moving." He eyes me with a frown. I know my shirt is ripped, and there's some blood on the side of my face, but it's not bad. "Why don't you go get cleaned up and changed? We need to leave soon."

"No," I say instantly. "I don't trust you. You'll try to leave me behind because you believe it's for my own good."

With a sigh, he calls Grischa. "Please find a clean shirt for my sister. I don't care whose it is, whatever fits."

He nods, eyeing me doubtfully before he disappears in search of something that makes me look less like a serial killer.

Checking the mirror next to Mother's desk, I wince. Okay, the blood might be a little worse than I thought. It's splattered across my face and my neck and my shirt sleeve is already stiff from the overspray.

I open the door to the adjoining bathroom and keep my eye on Nikolai while I wet a cloth, angrily wiping the blood off with angry, rough strokes. I don't deserve gentle touches. Grischa brings back a plain black shirt and makes an appalled little yelp as I yank my blouse off.

As he hurries out of the room, Maks is back, talking to Nikolai. "I have Avsey and Leon scouring the armory for all the rifles and the drones. Our drone technology is good; they're going to need that."

"Have they found his location?" I ask desperately.

He gives me a crooked smile. "Not yet, sestra."

***

Sestra - Russian for sister

Moy Brat - Russian for my brother

Tetya - Russian for aunt

Bozhe, pozhaluysta - Russian for please, God

Chapter Thirty-Seven

In which the clock is ticking.

Vadim…

"Easy!" Someone barks. "We don't want him dead yet!"

Ihiro grunts. "I know what I'm doing."

He does.

Like a gentleman, Dimakos introduced me to the pathetic fucks who hired his team, when they brought me into this steel shipping container. As expected, they moved me somewhere down by the Volga River. I can smell the damp earth and wet pine, the sharp stink of diesel fuel.

He then ushered Ihiro forward with some ceremony. "Ihiro is known for his skill in the art of torture. He has made men into something barely alive, unrecognizable as human. I'm looking forward to seeing how he treats you as his canvas.

I'm observing from a faraway corner of my mind, where I've put myself. The agony is still not as bad as it was when I was fourteen. Since my kidnapping and rescue, I've been shot. Stabbed. Burned. Thrown out of a three-story window. Hit by a car. None of it could ever be as soul destroying as those days as a boy in Grishchenkov's captivity.

This is close.