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I refuse to let him see that I’m afraid of him.
I’m Zenya Belyaev, and I refuse to be afraid of anyone.
The stranger stops right in front of me, and I force my chin up to stare at his face covering, right where his eyes must be. I fix an expression of proud dislike on my face, and I’m pleased that I’m able to hold it there.
Then my injured leg starts to shake. The stranger’s gaze drops and he tilts his head to one side as he contemplates my trembling ankle.
I sense amusement from him. Mockery.
I lift my heel half an inch more to take pressure off it, and my leg stops shaking.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I tell him. “The stench of blood is making me sick. What are we doing now? I’m a busy woman, so attack me or piss off.”
Those are the only two options. I sense there’s something else he wants from me, but I’ll die before I give him that. He can fight me and kill me, but I won’t let him humiliate and destroy me like that.
The stranger lifts his machete and gazes at the blade like he’s considering his two choices. Then he throws it aside.
I inhale sharply.
Shit.
I liked it better when he was armed.
I won’t let him—
He reaches for me, gloved fingers outstretched, seizes my wrists, and drags me against him.
“Don’t you fucking touch me! Let go of me.Let go of me, you asshole.”
I scream and thrash around in his grip. His hands are as tight as manacles, and I know I don’t stand a chance against him, but I refuse to stop fighting.
The stranger hooks one arm around my waist and one under my knees, lifting me into the air. A moment later I settle against his broad chest and he turns and starts walking. He carries me through the warehouse bridal style, stepping over body parts and through puddles of gore.
All the fight goes out of me, and I gaze up at him in surprise. Suddenly I sense nothing threatening coming off this man. He holds me like I’m precious.
“Where are you taking me? Who are you?”
The man finally replies, but he does so in a whisper, and I can barely hear him. “A friend.”
I blink in surprise. “He speaks.”
No reply. The stranger keeps walking through the darkness, carrying me like I weigh nothing.
Like I’m what he came to get.
“If you were my friend you’d show me your face.”
“I can’t do that,” he replies in a gruff whisper.
My eyes narrow in suspicion. “Why are you whispering? Do I know you?”
The stranger laughs softly, and I can’t tell if he meansof courseorof course not. He shoulders his way through a door, moving carefully so my feet don’t knock against the doorframe, and carries me up some steps.
We emerge into what must be the warehouse break room. There’s a sofa, and he takes me over to it and sets me down gently.
“Are you hurt?” he whispers, and to my surprise, he brushes my long hair back from my face and runs his fingers down my arms to check for cuts and bruises. Then he reaches for my legs and his fingers brush my injured ankle. I realize he’s about to feel the knife in my boot, and I jerk my foot away.
“I’ll ice it later. Am I your captive?”
