by Amarie Avant
My cellphone buzzes. I glance at the screen. It’s Beam. My request is complete. I slip the phone back into my pocket. Bloody prints soil the paper, as I fold it neatly and place it into my lapel, right where my heart once resided. For now, I’ll still kill anyone against my Tsarina. This letter means nothing because she still has my heart.
First light glints over the shoulders of a line of servants and trusted byki. At least fifty personnel stand along the court, shoulders fallen, gazes fatigued. Fog exits their mouths as they shiver in nightgowns or thermal long-sleeve pajamas. Dot, Beam, and a few other trusted byki stalk the line of prey, prepared to carry out my command. The palace steps are my dominion. My unblinking eyes track across morose faces. They’ve stood in the same spot for hours as I’ve studied their every demeanor.
Patience is a caveat for the torturer. You can watch someone. They are well aware that their lives are in your hands. They wait patiently, their eyes begging for their lives. Their lips are trembling—because they understand that they are not at liberty to speak yet—to beg, plead, or die.
Morning daylight shines down.
Snow falls.
A few women slink down into the slush. Just before a gun is leveled into their faces, another loyalist hefts out a hand to assist them at my request. The actions become humdrum.
The peacoat I’m wearing is no match for the stark chill. Asya’s letter in my pocket is the gasoline, the match, and the motherfucking fire. My most trusted stalk back and forth with the anticipation of tearing into any one of the shivering mudaks who are lined up.
Too many hours have transpired since I last held Anastasiya close. The feel of my lips on her forehead as I climbed out of bed in the early morning, is our last memory together.
My last memory while she slept. Finally, my voice booms over the horizon. “Who entered my room without consent?”
The pizda in me is still hopeful Asya’s letter was created by a world-renown forger.
“Pakhan,” Dot grits. “Looks like this one has something to tell you.”
He grips the back of the neck of a maid. Her knees buckle beneath her, and she stumbles into the snow. Her already shaking body flushes gray and purple from the frigid ice.
“Good,” I murmur. “What would you like to tell me, sweetheart?”
“I,” she begins in a stutter. At my subtle nod, Dot’s knuckles wash white. Her teeth bare to the pain of his attempts. “At first, I believed our Tsarina had returned to her room yesterday.”
“When?”
“After lunch, sir.”
I tip back my vodka bottle. Empty. The glass shatters against the frozen steps as I growl, “Please continue.”
“I thought it was Anastasiya. But it was not. The woman had to be about the same size. I did note she had a streak of white-blonde hair. I cannot be too sure it wasn’t her entire hair color. She wore a covering over much of her.”
White-blonde hair, white-blonde hair, I turn the minuet description around in my brain. “And you didn’t think to share the news with any of the guards?”
“Dah! I went straight away to the first guard.” The instant she speaks the name of a guard, he calls her a liar. “I’m telling the absolute truth, my Tsar.”
Dot lets go of the back of her head, and her forehead kisses the ground as she bows fully.
I’m out of my seat and down the steps.
“The suka told me nothing, Tsar!” The byki clinches his fists at his side. While I head over, his gaze lowers as custom. He continues to refute the maid’s report.
“I do not have time for conflicting statements.” I gesture toward Dot. “Be nice to our maid.”
The sound of a shot rings out from his area as the knife in my hand glides into the byki’s torso. Warm blood sprays across my fingers. In a guttural tone, the byki admits he didn’t get a good look at the woman before she left.
“Not a good look at all?”
His body begins to waver, as the knife slices through him. “Ny-nyet.”
“Did you warn any of your other consorts? Request assistance from the byki surrounding the palace?” I inquire, lifting the blade slowly. “You’re not a lone ranger.”
He struggles. “I . . . did . . . not, Tsar.”
“That’s right. You took the safety of your Tsar and Tsarina for granted.” The knife continues to hook and slide up his torso to his chest. Kicking him in the abdomen, I pull back, retrieving my knife, and the dead byki falls to his death.
“That is all for now.” I flick my wrist. Men and women alike jump into action, falling, tripping, to enter the warmth of the palace. I gather my closest byki.
Chewing my lip, I consider the dead maid’s words. White-blonde hair.
“Anastasiya had a roommate at the castle.” I snap my fingers then slur, “Kosta. They’ve connected in passing throughout the years. Asya visited South Africa with Kosta. Perhaps they were in Miami together.” My gander slides along their tensed, cold faces. “Who retrieved Asya’s belongings in Miami? Confirm if there was any proof two women lived there instead of one.”
“I’ll gather the men who stayed behind, sir.” A byki nods his head.
I flick my wrist, and he does an about-face, heading toward the double doors.
“Beam, look through the Bratva files. Kosta’s previous owner went by an alias, Khadar—”
“Should I—”
“Nyet, shut the fuck up. I haven’t given you an order. Khadar is dead. The one who sold her to Khadar is the Sheik of,” I chew my lip in thought, “Sheik of Abuli. Pay him a visit—commence with kindness, gage him.”
“Okay,” Beam says.
The wheels in my brain are on rapid-fire. I grab his shoulder. “New plan. Any man sets their eyes on Anastasiya and Kosta, that man may have Kosta’s life or death, or both. I don’t give a fuck about her. Bring my Tsarina home unharmed and be greatly rewarded. Understood?”
Beam asks, “May I schedule a conference with the Table of Seven. See if they can spare more men? Abuli is a huge nation.”
“Not necessary. My family is mourning Luka,” I lie. “Outsource and pay any fees necessary.”
Beam and Dot share glances before the one twin heads off.
“You’re all relieved. Half of you oversee the grounds with the rest of these incompetent fucks. The remainder of you, aid Beam or Dot.”
Sleet pelts down. Dot stands back, running a hand over his face.
“You may speak,” I order.
He nods his appreciation. “We aren’t telling the Table of Seven about Anastasiya’s disappearance or Luka’s death.”
“Nyet.”
“She is our Tsarina.” He bobs his head again, icicles clinging to his mustache and hair. “When she returned, Beam nor I had faith in her, Pakhan. But you’re our leader. We will find her safe. I’ll have a hacker on Chutin soon. I promise you that, or you may own my death.”
Dot heads toward the steps, and I let the pelts of ice fall on me. Reaching into the inside of my lapel, I slip out the letter once more. Though I’ve memorized it, seeing is believing.
Chapter 16
Anastasiya
One Week Later
Traveling from Irek’s vacation home to Oleg’s crummy compound took hours. My old headmaster didn’t see fit to have Irek’s guards place a cloak over my head. He’d promised that once he was done with me, I’d beg to return to Chutin. The mudak expected a cowering, sniveling fool in me. I made a mental picture of everything, down to the road in which Oleg resides.
My prison is a five-by-five-foot cell with a small bed and an overworked mattress. I’m sure it’s in close proximity to other rooms, the horror rooms and caged areas. But mine is just a room. Stark walls. Picturesque windows. I was different all because Irek Chutin has his requirements.
Two of Irek’s guards are on shift rotating day and night to keep Oleg from me or me from running—which—I haven’t the slightest idea.
With cuffs confining my hands behind my back, I stand near the window. I
t expands half the area across from my bed. A clearing is outside, and a hatchet is stuck in a wood stump that my palms are itching to touch. A half a kilometer away, pillowy snow-white trees jut into the sky.
All magnificence and a reminder of my confinement. What would be worse? One of the cages Oleg has threatened but has no right to make use of? Or this?
The gorgeous sight constricts my throat as I long for Simeon. I’m torn between the thought of Simeon saving me or my meeting Simeon in death one day. Our happily ever after must have a better outcome in the afterlife, right? Or fighting to survive and still dying . . . harder.
Where the fuck are you, Sim? I contemplate, pinching the sting from my eyes by shutting my lids tight. The serene outdoor view dashes from my vision. Symbolic freedom plunged into darkness.
“You waste food!” Oleg’s stomach-curdling voice calls out from the open door. It’s never shut. This nightmare is my life.
Blinking, I try my best to resurrect Simeon in my mind. To love him. To hate him for instilling this desire to save myself.
“I don’t shit money like those mudaks!” Oleg shoves a bowl of gruel and oats into my face. Defiant, I turn my head as he continues to argue. “The Resnovs gave me my resignation years ago! Irek’s only paying me to train you. Just you. Meaning once you’re gone, I have to—”
“Become gainfully employed?” I hear myself sneer. The full lips donated to me by a nameless woman curve cruelly. “Sell your own ass. I can still hear you telling Kosta to lick here, tease there, suck that!”
Oleg shoves at my shoulder. With my balance tied to the binding of my arms behind me, I stumble a few steps, then move into a wide-legged stance. “Oleg, I suggest you suck a dick a day. Perhaps that’ll keep you fed.”
“Will Simeon Resnov still love you were I to carve that gorgeous face! Better yet, tear you in half from your belly button to your precious pussy?” He reaches forward to poke a finger at my abdomen. My knee juts up, aimed toward his groin. My momentum and reflexes are not so polished. I meet all air.
“Descend, foolish girl. Beg your host for forgiveness.” Oleg laughs. He unzips his pants, his appalling shaft at attention. “You won’t eat the oatmeal?”
A guard, leaning against the wall, takes an interest. “Oleg,” he tests.
“I’m aware of Chutin’s irrational rules! Anastasiya will be my toy forever at this rate.” My headmaster grunts, massaging at his cock. He holds the bowl right beneath it.
“I’ve lost my appetite.” I begin to roll my eyes, but the bastard is already shooting his seed into the bowl. I wink. “Wow, how quick.”
The glaze in his eyes as thick, gooey spunk spirits into the bowl begins to lessen. I laugh harder, and Oleg slides the bowl of slop onto the ground before my feet. At the clatter of the tin bowl, Oleg stops it with the top of his boot.
“Down on all fours, now!”
His hands wrap around my abdomen, and Oleg’s tongue slithers across my cheek. Head tilted back, laughter bubbles from my soul.
“I-I’m su-supposed to f-fear your touch,” I stutter, chuckling. The past couple of days teeming in threats and no actions have driven me to tears and laughter. “Impossible.”
His domineering stance causes Baldy, the older of Irek’s guards, to chirp on his walkie-talkie. He’s no doubt sending for the younger guard with the chipped tooth, which I’ve named ‘Chip.’ Usually, while one man observes me, the other is asleep.
Unaware, Oleg’s knuckles flex.
I taunt, “Defy Chutin. You could have my submission the traditional way. Hit me!”
“Bring this suka to her knees!”
“What’s next?” I bark.
Baldy snorts. “Oleg, she doesn’t want to fucking eat your cum-laced oats! It’s absurd. Chutin would be livid!”
“Nyet?” Oleg arches an eyebrow. The younger soldier has entered the room, and he gestures between the two of them. “Per Chutin, no infliction of pain, no penetration! Now, you two idiots bring the Resnov Tsarina to her knees!”
Chip fork’s a crooked tooth over his bottom lip. He places a firm grip on my arm and pushes me to my knees.
Baldy sighs. “What sort of training is this, Oleg?”
A sinister smile dances at the edges of his lips. “Nyet penetration!”
Yellow rain zips toward my face. My lips cleave shut. The stench chokes down my nostrils. The soldier releases me in fear of Oleg’s aim.
My old headmaster’s shriveled cock zips around in circles. “I’m writing my name.”
I lunge forward, falling onto my face, hands bound behind my back. He grips my hair and slams the bowl of oatmeal down on me like a crown.
“You didn’t want to fill up with nourishment, Anastasiya. Now, I’ve blessed your hair.” He mops the goop around in my mane.
Chest heaving, lips snatched tight, I silently cry. I’m not the Invisible Thing, I repeat to myself. Grunting, Oleg moves to the ground, laying in the puddle with me. Like a lover brushing away dirt, he removes the oats and semen masking my hair. “I can’t hear you. Break for me, Anastasiya. Cry for me . . . louder.”
My throat is clogged, and my mouth opens without provocation. Weeping gurgles through me. No amount of self-hatred or threats to myself will stop this. I’m no longer bound by hysteric laughter. Instead, I cave to a fit of body-wracked sobs.
Chapter 17
Anastasiya
I was almost seventeen. I sauntered down the steps in Mother Sofiya’s home. As I gripped my cellphone in one hand to speak, my words echoed across the opulent void. “Luka, have you arrived at the physician’s office?”
“They couldn’t see—” The sound of my brat belching, caused me to pull the receiver away from my ear.
“Are you okay?” I started in the sitting room and tried the doors to the rose garden, ensuring they were locked. I listened to his hacking and then hung up. Damn, I was about to tell him to return. That I’d make soup for the first time in my life, take care of him, as he’d cared for me.
Tapping the cellphone in my pocket, I considered calling Simeon. Mother Sofiya had relieved our byki and servants this morning. I didn’t want to call him. Last time I wore a form-fitting dress, he hardly looked at me. Today, I had put on a skirt the second Luka left for the hospital, hoping Simeon would stop by. Now, I felt like a selfish brat all dolled up.
It was apparent Simeon only saw me as a little sister. Sofiya’s encouragement last year had gone to shit. Simeon hadn’t tried to touch me since that one time when I attempted to console him after his parents screwed. Now, he attended the university, surrounded by gorgeous women. Simeon had a lot of ass to choose from. And I was slinking around in a tight skirt and felt like a donkey’s rear end.
I started down the cream-colored corridor, checking windows, locking doors, telling myself not to call him. Not to manipulate Luka’s misfortune into a teen girl’s crush.
My phone rang.
“Sim,” I breathed.
“Luka texted me an hour ago that he left. Your instructor doesn’t come on Tuesdays, and my mother is away.” His intellectual assessment became hard and clipped as he asked, “Why didn’t you call me?”
“Because you have class on Tuesdays.” Lit, Communications, and the one psychology course with Garbovsky that you’re taking because your mother is a nut case. I’m also sort of a stalker. And what’s with the angry tone? I cleared my throat instead of sharing my thoughts.
“Secure the house, Asya.”
“Simeon, don’t bark orders at me,” I gritted out. It always took a few seconds for my desire to subside, and I matched his usual clipped tone. But beneath it all, I’d swear I was sexually frustrated, and I’d never done the deed. “I’m a grown—”
“You’re a girl, Asya,” Simeon bit out. “How many times must I remind you, this world isn’t safe—”
“Are you speeding?” I cut in. This world had to be safe for me because no matter how dark it was, only in this universe would I be tethered to Simeon. After all the hatred I h
ad for a Resnov, my heart beat for one.
“Dah, I’m speeding to you.”
I almost smiled, my imagination at work. Though Simeon seemed tensed, he was, after all, coming to see me. Setting aside girlish thoughts, I cleared my throat.
“There’s ice on the road. You’re half-an-hour away,” I groaned, stalking toward the front door. “You’re not invincible.”
His tension seemed to abate. There was a rare lush drone to his deep, steel voice. “Maybe I’m invincible. Ten minutes.”
Dah, he was invincible and dangerous.
A danger to my soul. I bounded past crystals on pillars, feeling beautiful. “As I said, you’re not. Wait, Luka texted you an hour ago . . . while you were in Lit?” I slammed my lips shut, warmth spreading across my cheeks. God, he knew I knew his schedule. Hell, I goaded Luka and pretty much knew all the days of the week he got laid, too.
“I drive fast.”
Smiling, I reached for the door. My fingertips brushed the knob when it turned and bumped into my hand. I stepped back a few paces, staring up into the stark eyes of Simeon’s father. Whereas Simeon had a lush dark mystery surrounding him, Anatoly Resnov’s aura reeked. A demonic, pulsing force surrounded his broad shoulders.
“I-I’m on the phone with Simeon,” I trembled out.
Arm snaking behind my back, Anatoly slammed me against his chest. He took the phone and pressed the off button.
Nausea twirled me like a spindle. He’d never been close to me, not like this. His vodka breath teased over my nose and cheeks.
“I never visit my Castles, Anastasiya. Too much temptation.” His callused hand pawed along my cheek. “None so tempting as you.”
I found myself nodding profusely, warning myself to speak.