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Chapter 3
“Get up.”
I groan as awareness returns in agonizing snatches. Whatever drug Vanya gave me was of dangerous quality—the type of all-consuming drug the old Ellen Winthorp might have chased to numb the pain of her existence. For the first time in days, I didn’t dream of a damn thing, and yet I awaken to an unfolding nightmare.
“I said get the hell up.”
I blink my eyes open and find a demon with golden hair standing above me. He’s still wearing black and his hair hangs loosely around his shoulders. “Get up!”
When I don’t comply with his commands, something hard nudges my side. His boot?
A mattress conforms beneath me, but when I turn my head, the carpet is closer than it should be. Am I in another dungeon, or did he move me to a different room while I was asleep? But no…
The red walls are the same, as are the sheets. But the bed frame is gone, and so is the vanity, and the wardrobe, and any other sense of furnishing.
Like magic, he’s turned the tables once more.
“From now on, if you want a fucking thing, you buy it your damn self,” Mischa snarls, proving my suspicion correct: Somehow, he stripped the room bare. “Get dressed.” He kicks the mattress, spurring me into a sitting position. “I have a job for you.”
Unease coils in my belly. “A job.” After swallowing hard, I add,“Being a mule for you to smuggle something into a boutique?”
His eyes widen. He didn’t think I noticed?
“Or,” I continue, “as a whore?”
With Robert gone, those are the only two uses he could have for me.
But his expression reveals nothing. Just bitter impatience that bristles as our gazes meet.
“Do not test me, Robert’s—” He breaks off, scowling, but I can guess what word he held back.Wife.“Get. Dressed.”
He didn’t remove my new clothing, at least. The items are still packaged in boxes and bags piled behind him in one corner of the room. Cautiously, I stand and take a step, but my buckling legs nearly pitch me over.
“Easy,” Mischa hisses. He grabs my arm, steadying me—but, surprisingly, I don’t feel any pain. The drug must still be in my system.
“I’m fine.” Taking care with my bandaged hand, I stagger toward the clothing and fish out the first outfit I can reach: a white dress.
I shed my filthy clothes and pull on the new dress over my head one-handed. When I try to smooth the hem, a drop of fresh blood seeps into the fabric. Spreads.
“I…I need to wash,” I croak as my thumb rubs at the spot in vain.
He says nothing, but he doesn’t stop me, either, when I turn toward the bathroom and limp over the threshold. Spotting my reflection in the mirror, I freeze, fixated by the mound of bandages around my left hand. It looks worse than I’ve imagined. A vibrant scarlet taints sections of the white gauze. Within seconds, it’s dripping red, red, red.
Vanya left some supplies for me. I spot them arranged neatly on the counter, and perhaps it’s delirium from blood loss that makes me sway, rather than gratitude. With my intact hand braced against the counter for leverage, I use my teeth to snag a piece of gauze from the bandage and unravel it layer by layer. There’s no point in being brave. Not here. I moan and gasp at every tendril of burning pain that roils through my arm as more of the injury is exposed.
Reddened, inflamed flesh. A bloodied, gaping socket.
Oh God. I turn away, choking back bile as the gravity of what I’ve done sinks in. I’ve never hurt myself before. I never held a knife against my own flesh and contemplated the damage I could do.
But I remember it all now. Holding the blade, pressing down, tasting salt on the air… It took me three agonizing attempts to cut through the bone on my own. Then I vomited and dropped the knife. So someone else had to sever the last bit of muscle and tendon.
The same man who snatches my wrist now, preventing me from dripping more blood onto the floor. “Look at me,” he growls. “Don’t you dare pass out—look at me!”
Too exhausted to turn my head, I settle for watching him in the mirror’s reflection. My blurred vision creates a twin for him, equally as cold as the original. Both hiss in disgust as my head lolls, too heavy to lift.
“Sit on the counter.” He clears a space with a swipe of his hand, sending medicinal bottles and tools crashing to the floor. “Sit on the fucking counter—come here. No! Hold on to me, damn it!” Grunting, he grips my thigh and lifts me onto the counter’s ledge himself.
“I…I’m going to faint,” I admit against his shoulder. My head feels hot. I have to suck the air down into my lungs and hold it there before exhaling. In. Out. Slow. Slower.
