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“Don’t call me that,” I snapped without thinking. The familiar, cruel nickname hit me with a gut punch of reflexive anger. I’d felt this powerless, helpless rage far too many times before. The impotent fury made my insides burn, but the familiar searing heat was far more comfortable than the bone-chilling terror of being held captive.
His head tipped back, causing shadows to pool into the deep hollows beneath his cheekbones. What little I’d been able to make out of his features melted into darkness, leaving me staring into that awful, skull-like mask.
I shrank into the unyielding metal chair, withering beneath the weight of his macabre glower. My fingers trembled, and I reflexively closed my fists to hide the sign of weakness. Bullies fed off my weakness. That’s what made tormenting me fun for them.
My heart pounded erratically against my ribcage, and the room lurched around me. Past trauma and current, horrific reality were blending together. Still under the influence of whatever had been in that syringe, I could no longer differentiate this hostage scenario from awful memories of being terrorized by my worst bullies. Panic clawed at my brain, and years of learned coping mechanisms clicked into place to protect me from the worst of the abuse that was to come. I couldn’t allow innate fear responses to betray how terrified I was. That would only encourage my tormentor to continue toying with me.
“You’d be better off answering my questions instead of arguing with me, Alexandra.” He emphasized my name, and it was somehow worse than the mocking nickname. His low, quiet tone resonated through the dimly lit room, caressing my skin in a silky-smooth threat. He said my name like he knew all my darkest secrets, ones that were buried so deep, even I wasn’t aware of them yet. “You know about your father’s connection to the Bratva. And you’re going to tell me everything.”
I couldn’t fathom knowing anything terrible enough to warrant the heavy condemnation in his tone, but he spoke with such absolute certainty that for a moment, I questioned my sanity.
I shook my head to clear it. The movement made my thoughts slosh in my brain. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My tongue was too thick in my mouth, and my words slurred slightly.
Don’t show weakness. I swallowed and tried again. “Let me go.”
He muttered a low curse. “I shouldn’t have dosed you so much. You’re even more delicate than you look.”
I’m not delicate! The snappish, kneejerk retort was at the tip of my tongue, but I pressed my lips together to lock it inside. I couldn’t allow him to see how much he was riling me.
Weak. Skinny. Ugly. You look like a little boy. My bullies’ words echoed in my head, rolling around inside my skull and heightening my nausea.
“Tell me what I want to know, and you can go home. You’re staying right here until you talk, Freckles.”
“I told you not to call me that!” I burst out before I could stop myself.
“I’ll call you whatever I want. You’re the one tied to a chair in my basement. You don’t get to make demands, Freckles.” He placed extra emphasis on the mocking nickname, twisting the knife. I caught another flash of white teeth as he bared a cruel smile at me.
“You’re a bully,” I seethed in a moment of absolute clarity, cleaving to my righteous, familiar rage. It seared away the worst of my debilitating terror. “You think you can scare me into telling you what you want to hear. I don’t know anything about any Russians. I don’t know if you’re insane or if you’re just getting off on terrorizing me. But you’re a bully, and I’ve dealt with bullies before. You won’t get anything out of me.”
So far, Max hadn’t physically hurt me to get me to talk. In fact, he’d barely touched me at all. I knew his type. He wanted my fear. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, and I wouldn’t give him any nasty lies he could use against my father. He’d put that camera there for a reason: he wanted to record my testimony.
“You think I’m just a bully.” His voice went cold and flat, and I realized he’d been almost conversational until now. A chill danced over my skin, making my flesh pebble and my fine hairs stand on end.
I’d been wrong. This man wasn’t toying with me. He wasn’t playing games.
He ran a hand through the dark curls that fell over his brow, pushing his hair back so his eyes flashed through the gloom. His long fingers wrapped around the arms of the chair at either side of me, and he surged forward into my personal space.
I couldn’t stifle my horrified shriek when his snarling face stopped within inches of my own.
“I’m not a bully,” he growled. “I am a monster out of your worst nightmares.” Full lips twisted on a grimace, teeth snapping on each menacing word. The ferocious expression contorted his features, and a true beast snarled in my face. The sparse light overhead caught in the craggy, ruined flesh around his right eye, casting rippling shadows that formed a grotesque mask. The dark pools in the hollows beneath his high cheekbones were more skull-like than ever.
