by Lana Sky
It’s cold. My teeth slam together as goosebumps rise over my arms. I left the bustier somewhere on the barroom floor. Along with my pride. My sanity. My career.
No more detours down memory lane. I have to get out. Find Anna. Flee. My thoughts race to form a plan as I turn to face the man following in my wake. My eyes go to his waist, searching… Bingo. I sigh in relief. He’s wearing a belt—black leather with a silver buckle. I reach for it, forcing my lips into a charming smile.
“Let me help you with this,” I purr.
Then I’ll strangle him with it. Not kill him. Maybe. Just stun. Buy more time. Get to Vlad and make him tell me where Anna is…
“Wait.” He closes the door and cuts those piercing eyes in my direction.
I don’t find an angel in them now, and my feet propel me back against the wall without requiring any input from my nerves. It’s instinct, one my brain can’t reconcile. Fear of him?
“Let’s just cut to the chase,” he says, his voice alarmingly soft, reinforcing my unease. “I know you’re a cop.”
Chapter Three
Chloe
Think. The need hammers against my skull. If he really is one of Vlad’s lackeys, then he’ll call for help at any moment. I can’t let that happen. Desperate, I scan the room for a lamp or another item I could use as a weapon. There. Piotr’s prized ashtray is within my reach, a poetic sort of irony. I shift toward it, clinging to the wall. Just my fucking luck, the man follows.
“I’m no cop,” I lie. Miracle of miracles, my voice doesn’t shake. How in the hell did he know? “I’m not—”
“You came here with a cop. Don’t tell me that’s just a coincidence.”
“What?” Dread knots my stomach. He has to be lying. Grey doesn’t make dumb mistakes. His truck was unmarked. He wasn’t even in uniform. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“Cut the shit.” His hand strikes the wall near my head, and the resulting bang snaps my nerves to attention. “Let’s say I know a little birdy who warned me that a woman was headed my way. Average height. Thin. Red wig. You ditched the wig for some reason, but I know you’re her.”
My lungs are on fire. I’ve been holding my breath. “How?”
“You don’t have a mark on you. At least…”
I flinch as the rough pad of his thumb grazes my forehead.
“Except for that. My little birdy mentioned this female cop would have a scar like that.”
Breathe. I do as he withdraws, feeling my chest expand and contract.
“You’re crazy—”
“Am I?” The shadow that falls over his face could be a trick of the ghoulish light, but he looks older. Harder. More demon than angel. “Tell me who your target is,” he demands. “Or I go back out there and let good ol’ Vlad know that he has a mole in his club. Are you after the girls? I know sometimes you cops like to use them as collateral to get to the big boys. That won’t work.”
“You could tell Vlad,” I admit. “But he…he won’t believe you.” Only because he might already know. I feel it in my gut. Despite the few hiccups, this has been way too easy. “I’m not a cop—”
“Then who are you?”
I have just a second to compose a good lie. “I work for them. The police said, if I come and get them information, they won’t charge me for prostitution, and I can be safe.”
Blue Eyes tilts his head, unconvinced. I’ll have to dig deep to fool him.
“Think about it. Could a cop just prance in here undetected? Without backup? Without a weapon? Look.” I run a hand down the side of my tiny, white shorts. “I can’t even hide a gun. Who would be that stupid—”
“So, who are you, then?” He advances another step, and I’m trapped. “Tell me the truth or I’m going to Vlad.”
“I’m no one,” I insist.
“Oh, really?” An alarming expression contorts his mouth. A breathtaking smile. A terrible grimace. “Then what business do you have with Olshenkov?”
I blink, unguarded for a split second. What business do I have with Vlad? Nothing. Everything.
“That’s my business—”
“And your cop friend. Don’t tell me he’s just here to hold your hand?”
“His…business is about Piotr Petrov,” I stammer, risking a kernel of the truth. “That’s it.”
“Petrov?”
I avoid his suspicious glance in favor of hunting for a way out. I could shove him into the bathroom and barricade the door. Incapacitate him somehow. I could…
“What’s your name?”
“Why does it matter?” I glance at him sharply.
“I guess it doesn’t,” he admits. “Still want to know though.” He angles his body toward mine—a stance that makes it ten times harder to sneak past him.
“Ksei,” I spit.
He cuts his gaze to the doorway before I can tell if he believes me or not. “Well…what do you say we both get the hell out of here, then, Ksei?”
Go? My mind latches onto that word. I should fucking run.
Something about this room renders me helpless. The walls of my old prison are familiar yet different at the same time. Even the paint seems to be a slightly different shade of gray. There’s a tinge of red now. Wait… That “speck” of red starts to flash. It doesn’t come from the wall itself, either, but a small, black box mounted near the ceiling.
Shit. Recognition hits me like a punch to the stomach.
“The camera…” How could I have been so stupid as to forget it? “He’s watching us.”
Someone has to be in that little room at the back of the club, making the lens refocus to trigger the light. Vlad?
It doesn’t matter.
“Wait.”
A firm grip seizes my arm, but I’m already halfway to the door, my fingers pawing for the knob.
“Hey! Listen to me.”
Listen. I’m years in the past, going through the motions with a client while Piotr coaches me—sometimes symbolically through the pulsing camera’s lens. Sometimes he booked a bird’s-eye view right beside the bed if the customer was into that sort of thing.
“Give the man his money’s worth,” he’d growl into my ear. “Make him beg for more…”
“Hey.”
The gruff tone doesn’t drag me back to the present as much as the gentle touch trailing down the length of my arm does. I wrench the limb back only to lose my balance and trip forward. A startled grunt bastes my skin, and I feel rather than see an unfamiliar hand slide down to my waist.
“Don’t move,” the man warns the moment I resist his grip. “Unless you want all of them out there to realize who you are.”
Ksei, back from the dead?
No. A cop—that’s what he thinks, anyway.
“Give me a dance,” he suggests, his breath warm against my ear. “Something quick and easy. Then I’ll leave, and you can slip out—”
“Why?” I draw back enough to see his face. “Why help me?”
“To be fair, I don’t think we have a lot of time to waste on talking.”
I swallow hard. He’s right.
“Get on the bed,” he says, following the same train of thought. Letting me go, the stranger backs up a step, tilting his head so that his expression is hidden from the camera’s view. He sinks onto the mattress, watching me during the entire descent.
He’s on my level now, and thoughts of escape come more easily, more tempting than before. I could hit him and make a break for the exit before Vlad could even rise from his chair.
My legs spur into action, bringing me forward, and his scent floods my nostrils. Sharp. Acrid—like smoke. The camera’s still watching from the corner, its steady, red light blaring a silent warning.
“Lie down,” I whisper.
A shadow descends across his face, hardening his features with every ounce of space I gain on him. I’m almost taken aback at how easily my body reacts to the role I have to play. My hands slowly slide across my bare torso, and the motion catches his atten
tion. His eyes flicker down to my exposed breasts and a flash of heat jolts through my body—but that statuesque expression never wavers, even as I brace one knee on the side of his left hip.
Our postures now mirror each other’s. Both tense, both untrusting. There is a stiff chill that shrouds the heat emanating from him.
I blame it for the shiver racing down my spine.
“Let’s get you a bit more comfortable,” I murmur as if Vlad is listening outside the door. “Maybe take your shirt off?” I run my fingers down to his chest, using the act as a cover to feel for a weapon. I find only coiled muscle that twitches, ready to spring into action, as I hook my hand beneath his shirt and lift.
I can only pray that Vlad doesn’t see what they’re really doing from his position. They’re clenching. They’re shaking.
Memories flood my brain one after the other, riding the telltale stench that lingers in the sheets. Piotr only ever wore one brand of cologne. Krov’Volka. Wolf Blood. I smell it even now with every frantic breath I take. He’s inside me, whether I want him there or not. Just like old times.
No. You’re here for Anna, I mentally chant. Anna, Anna, Anna.
“Wait.” Suddenly, the man beneath me rears up, knocking me against his chest. His nearness triggers a million uncomfortable sensations. Unfamiliar body heat. Raw skin on coarse fabric. I almost miss what he says next. “What’s that?”
I scramble back. “W-what?”
Faint thuds come from behind the closed door. Shouting. Glass breaking.
Vlad is throwing quite the party tonight.
“Shit.” Blue Eyes lunges to his feet. It’s the prime position for the dingy, artificial light to glance off the planes of his back revealed by his displaced shirt. Scars. The grouping of welts rises from his skin, more striking than any tattoo.
A revolting mixture of horror and pity floods my veins. I know those marks. How the wounds sting and burn as they heal. How the resulting scars swell against the skin like snakes. My fingertips run over my inner thighs without permission, sensing the uneven ridges of flesh.
I must have made a sound, because he turns, his eyes darkening when he realizes what I’ve seen. Before he can adjust his shirt, the door opens and Vlad storms in.
“We need to reschedule,” he says brusquely. “Here. So that your friend doesn’t forget our generosity.” He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a roll of cash he shoves against the other man’s palm.
“Why?” Blue Eyes accepts the money, but his feet drift apart, opening his stance. “Something wrong?”
“Change of plans,” Vlad says. “Just some fucking pigs causing trouble. Didier will discuss your…friend’s future business before seeing you out.”
The stranger doesn’t even glance back at me before leaving. I follow him, keeping my head down, my eyes averted from Vlad. Focus, Grey would warn. Don’t break your cover, no matter what. My foot breaches the threshold the moment a hand seizes my shoulder and yanks me back.
“Oh, no, you don’t. Not you.”
The door slams, and I’m wrenched around, forced to bear the full brunt of Vlad’s scrutiny. His gaze skims over my shoulder, and a chilling grin shapes his mouth.
“Number ten. It is you. What? You thought I wouldn’t notice? You can change your hair or fix your face, but you can’t take the whore out of the bitch, can you?” He sounds smugger in Russian than he ever could in English. “Couldn’t get enough of Piotr’s cock, could you, Ksei?”
My pulse hammers in my ears. The bed is the only barrier big enough to scramble behind and put between us. Fight, Grey would hiss. My hand slaps my thigh, registering the absence of my gun. Shit. Something glimmers from the corner of my eye, so I grab it. The ashtray. My fingers tighten over the awkward shape as I raise it between Vlad and me.
He’s already snatching his butcher’s knife from his back pocket. With one hand, he tears off the leather sheath covering the blade. “What I really want to know is—Who helped you?” He bares his teeth in a vicious snarl the moment I flinch. “You think I’m stupid? You couldn’t have survived this long on your own. So, who?”
“Maybe you’re not as untouchable as you think?” I counter, but he’s right. I didn’t survive Piotr on my own—and I’d rather die than betray my benefactor.
“Is that so? Speaking of touching, Piotr’s missed you,” he tells me, hefting the blade so that the edge catches the light. “I called him—”
“What?” I step back. Air won’t go into my throat. The room caves in, the walls looming closer. Focus…
“I refreshed his memory,” Vlad says, his voice distorted, coming from a million directions at once. “There’s only one bitch I remember with a face like that. I thought he killed you, Piotr. I spent a week scrubbing your brains from my shoes, after all. You were always his favorite, sneaky little Ksei. But I don’t think he’d mind if we have some fun, no?”
He lunges. Lightning fast, Vlad aims lower, and I lash out, nails drawn, in a vain attempt to block the blow. I strike flesh, but so does he. Pain. I double over. Fire sears my every nerve ending as something wet and warm dribbles down my arm, coating my fingers and threatening my grip on the ashtray.
“Just as feisty as always,” Vlad admits. He swipes at his forehead with a meaty hand and hisses to discover that I’ve drawn blood. “You always did cause more trouble than you were worth—”
“Like Anna?”
He chuckles at the name, shaking his head. “A friend of yours?”
“Don’t play dumb.” I swallow hard, eyeing the blade. Pain disrupts my focus, consuming every nerve in its path. I blink, and one sneering monster splits into four, cackling from every corner of the room. “Where is she? I know you remember her. I know she’s here—”
“Anna…” He contorts the name around his tongue and then spits onto the floor at my feet. “I think I recall one girl with that name. Small. Pretty little girl. If I remember correctly, Piotr threw her out, along with the rest of the trash you called family.”
Red. It’s all I see, swallowing Vlad as he swings at me again. But my arm flies out as well. A sickening thud warns me that one of us struck true this time. Him? No. Groaning, he stiffens. Staggers. Falls.
I’m over him in an instant, adjusting my grip over the ashtray as he clutches his head. “Where is she?”
“You little—”
“Where?” I hit him again, startling him mid-curse.
He merely laughs, focusing his gaze on me. “Dead. She’s fucking dead—”
I hit him again. My movements devolve into a frantic motion of my hands rising and lowering over and over. No matter how many times I strike, he’s still laughing at me. Taunting me.
“You’ll never find her,” he sneers. “She’s dead. A ghost. All this time, you were chasing a ghost—”
Vibrations ricochet through my body. Footsteps. I heft the ashtray, ready to strike. But the figure staring at me is all wrong. His face is too pretty. His eyes are too blue, widening at the sight of me.
I look down and discover why. My fingers are slippery, caked in warmth. They loosen their grip on the ashtray, and it falls only to bounce against a shapeless lump smeared in red.
If good ol’ Vlad isn’t already in hell, he’s well on his way there.
“We’ve gotta get the fuck out of here,” the blue-eyed man says.
We? My tongue feels too heavy to question. I’m too heavy. My body reacts solely on autopilot to take the hand he’s extending toward me. One yank has me on my feet, and he rips something from my back—the wings—and drops them onto the floor. Behind him, the door swings on its hinges. Chaos issues from the hallway. Shouting. Vlad’s name echoes in different voices. Far away. Closer. Then closer…
“Hey!” Someone snaps his fingers.
My brain sputters back to life. I focus on his face and notice the pink lips moving in tandem. Saying something. Shouting something.
“Come on!”
We’re in a hallway now. Or more like Blue Eyes is, dragg
ing me along after him. It smells. Acrid. Sharp. Like smoke. It’s darker as well. The pounding bass has cut off, revealing a cacophony of shouting in its place. Screaming.
“Fuck!”
A metallic clang draws my attention over Blue Eyes’ shoulder. He’s standing before a fire exit, slamming his hand against the door. It’s locked and chained from the other side to thwart any brave girl who might get the idea in her head to escape.
“I know a way.” My voice sounds too thick. I blink again, and the world drifts in and out of focus.
“Where?” He hooks his palm beneath my chin when I don’t answer quickly enough. “Come on. Think! Where?”
I blink again. Twice. Three times. Shadows flicker beyond him. Vlad’s men.
“This way.” I turn back toward Piotr’s room, my old cage.
I used to study every inch of the four enclosed walls. I bet I could still find every trace of old blood, every stain I left behind. He’s here, weighing me down even now as I stagger toward his private bathroom. My foot strikes something I didn’t expect, and I nearly trip over it. Something heavy. Human.
“This way?”
Blue Eyes is too fast. He muscles me forward, already catching on to our only chance for escape—the window placed right above the Jacuzzi-style bathtub. Apart from the ventilation, I think Piotr enjoyed the power that came with dangling what appeared to be an easy escape before his victims.
“You have to break the glass.” The words trickle out of me.
I don’t know if Blue Eyes heard them or if he’s already come to that conclusion himself. He lunges across the tiled flooring, and the next second, a waist-height vase meets the glass’s frosted surface.
Then I’m aware of fresh air and chaos. Sirens wail above the general clamor of traffic, and an icy wind nips at every inch of bare skin—though I’m not anywhere near as cold as I should be. A glance down reveals why. Someone dressed me in a black button-down shirt long enough to reach the tops of my knees. When? I can’t remember.
“Hey.”
A firm shake on my shoulder drags my attention to the man standing beside me. His torso is bare; it’s his shirt I’m wearing. Lean muscle flexes with tension, betraying the strength his lanky frame disguises. That’s not all. A tattoo spans the width of his chest. It’s new, the skin still peeling around the edges. Eight letters mark his flesh, etched there in black ink. Something so odd that I have to read it twice.