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His smile is chilling, his tone satisfied. “No.” His hand on my cheek is soft and warm. “Aleksei had already done that.”
My mouth drops, and my stomach twists with disgust.
He didn’t go there…
“Come on,” he says as he leaves. “We’ve got a lot of work to do. Meet me in the office. Your clothes are on the chair.”
He closes the door behind him. Anger boils my blood, and I grab the glass next to me before hurling it at the door.
“Asshole!!” I scream at the closed door.
I know he heard me, just like I know he doesn’t care.
My entire body is aching, but nothing compares to the deep pain between my legs. My eye feels swollen, my lips are cut, and I can taste blood in my mouth. My wrists are on fire, and I can still feel the zip-ties around them despite knowing they’re gone.
But the pain inside? The pain low in my body? Nothing is worse than that. I feel like I’ve been cut open with a knife. One movement, and I will hurt some more.
I can’t take any more pain right now.
You’re about to die. Because while your body will live, your soul will be too shattered to ever be put back together.
Aleksei was right. I died yesterday and ended up right in hell.
A week ago, I was a free woman. Since being taken, I’ve been kept in that disgusting basement. Until yesterday. Until Aleksei and his men…
Don’t think about it.
I’m lying in a bed, and I can hear someone next to me. They’re in pain too but not the same kind. Theirs is superficial. They haven’t been destroyed inside. The most intimate part of themselves wasn’t broken and abused.
“Valentin…I need you to keep still. Let me sedate you, or you’ll be in horrifying pain. I need to take the bullet out.” The woman’s Russian accent is strong.
A bullet? What does Valentin know about horrifying pain?
“No...no,” the man fights back. “Viktor will kill me. I need to give him the names.”
“You need to be put to sleep!” the woman fights back. She shouts some more words in Russian.
I keep my eyes closed. Listening silently and pretending I am not present.
“The names,” he grunts.
“I’ll tell him names. What are they?”
“Boris Fedorov. Igor Ivanov.” He struggles to take a breath. “The American boy, Oliver…Oliver Thorn. Yuri…I don’t remember his last name, but Viktor will know. And Solovyov. His name’s…Maksim.”
“Okay, okay. Sleep now.”
“Did you get them? Write them down…they’re all moles. They’re…”
His voice disappears as he falls asleep.
I wait another minute before opening my eyes.
The blonde woman who was talking is wearing surgical gloves. Her hair is tied back in a ponytail, and she’s wearing a mask. The man lying down, I’m assuming Valentin, is plugged into an IV while she uses forceps to pull a bullet out of his stomach.
It takes her around forty minutes to finish. I know because I keep checking the clock on the gray wall. The room is small. Two beds, and they’re both occupied—one by Valentin and one by me. The floor is made of small, white tiles leading to a drain and the only furniture occupying the room are steel trolleys with surgical apparatus.
She tweaks the IV drip when the man is bandaged up and then looks at me.
