by Amarie Avant
Chip groans. “Your stomach won’t stop growling, and you won’t stop whimpering.”
I continue to bite my eyes shut, but he grips both shoulders, shaking them vigorously. He whispers, “Open your eyes, girl. Eat. It’s a fucking apple. It’s safe.”
Through the dark of night, I connect with his light blue eyes and shake my head. “Take off my cuffs.”
Chip shoves the apple beneath my pillow, whispering, “You’re too stubborn for your own good, girl.” He reaches down toward the heater and turns it in my direction. His cold, trembling hands zip his jacket to beneath his chin. He resumes his position next to the door. Heated tears burn my eyes.
“Sim, where are you?” I mouth.
Chapter 20
Simeon
Though it seems I’ve abandoned you twice, you have to know how much I’ve always cared. For now, all I can give you are my apologies . . .
—With love
“Anastasiya,” I murmur, thumb running over the ink of her signature. A forensic analyst isn’t necessary to confirm her handwriting. “She left me twice . . .”
Another week has passed. Seventeen fucking days since I last laid eyes on her, held her close, ensured her safety. Before I sent the young hacker away on a different assignment, she had been able to retrieve entrance into all Chutin’s security systems. She had images of him from an entire month preceding Anastasiya’s disappearance. I currently had bykis analyzing everything day by day. It was a lot to go through. Political dinners. Sex with his wife, sex with the harem of whores. Tea with all the powerful men in the world, aside from me.
I chew my lip, contemplating that. He’s an angle I’ll never stop pursuing, not until his spirit flees this world. I’d broken two of Anastasiya’s stipulations.
Continuing to target the Armenians, the blind fuck in my basement has yet to break.
I slip my phone out of my pocket and call a number I’ve always sent straight to voicemail. The man himself answers on the second ring.
“Young Resnov.” Chutin’s voice dips in curiosity. I remember the day we met. He’d called me that stupid name. “To what do I owe the pleasure.”
“You’ve attempted to kiss my ass since I became Tsar, and I’ve ignored you.” I wriggled my jaw to cut the tension. “I wanted to apologize over tea.” Which does not indicate that I’m apologizing, nor will I.
“Kiss your ass? So uncouth, like your uncle. I had high hopes we’d mend the relationships our grandfathers once held. Nevertheless, you’re offering tea.”
“Dah. When might I expect you?”
“And you’re calling me yourself. I’ve grown accustomed to that cousin of yours as the liaison. The one with the striking blue eyes.”
My head tilts. Is he referring to Kirill or Luka? It’s been over two weeks, and Luka’s family is still not aware of his death. A world-class mortician has my little cousin on ice. “Who the fuck are you referring to?”
There’s silence for a moment. “Tsk, the one with the ponytail.”
I narrow my eyes, and I ruminate over any connotation in his voice. Kirill has the ponytail, and he’s slept this entire time. Is Chutin aware that Luka’s dead?
“Well, I’m sure that I can fit you in toward the end of the week. My secretary will advise.”
“Good.” I hang up the phone.
An image of Anastasiya is fresh in my mind. My version of perfection was inside of her: mind, body, soul. We had just embarked on forever before she left that unforgivable letter and ruined things. All I want to do is get her back.
With me.
Dead.
Or alive.
Those are the only thoughts roaming through my mind.
Chapter 21
Mikhail
The slight tremor of rustling awakens me. I jolt to my feet, forcing myself to discard the screaming tension in my neck from lying on a lounger. I rub a hand over my pants. I’m dressed in jeans, fully dressed. I groan.
“You’re still in mother-fucking-Russia,” I tell myself. Two weeks later, and reality still hasn’t penetrated. My eyes adjust to the darkness. It’s an opulent room with brocade textured walls. And there’s a body in an extravagant bed. It clicks. Kirill.
I’ve kept him asleep for over two weeks, and now he’s got one handcuff loose and working the confines of his other wrist.
“Stop!” I grit.
“What are you saying, Mikhail?” Kirill grits out in Russian. “I do not speak English.”
Fumbling over the words, I issue it again.
“Sounds a little better. Though, you do not order me. Unless it is death you seek. Give me a moment, and I’ll assist with that.” His chuckle is tense.
I stumble toward a gun on the dresser and hold it toward him. “You’re my family, Kirill. Readjust your handcuffs, okay?”
“Do it for me.” He lets his free hand fall. His blue eyes mirror mine, although with a sinister gleam.
“Why does everyone fucking test me?!” I head toward him; gun still leveled out. Kirill reaches forward with one hand. I launch my forearm into his neck, pressing the gun against his nose. “Act like an animal. I’ll shoot you like a motherfucking animal, Cousin. I’m done playing civilized!”
He sighs. “If it weren’t for the blood coursing through your veins, Mikhail, I’d kill you.”
I nudge the gun harder into his neck. “Same for you.”
I start to assist Kirill with putting the handcuff back on when he twists his arm to the side. With the butt of the gun, I slam against his nose then his temple. It's not enough to render him unconscious, but enough so he’ll stop resisting. One day, I’ll fucking snap!
Kirill sniffs back the blood in his mouth. I settle onto the edge of the chaise.
“Where’s my injection?” His eyebrow lifts. “Or will my brat receive the memorial owed to him?”
I lick my lips. “Luka was about the sanest of you all. Simeon was as close to him as he is to you.”
“Dah.” His eyes lower.
My gaze follows the Tsar’s lapdog’s every move. What happened? Why exactly was Kirill put to sleep? Why does he blame Anastasiya? Where the hell is she? A battery of questions flits through my mind.
“Sim is looking into what happened to them,” I mutter.
“Them? You mean Luka and the suka?” His laughter dies into a hard sob.
I pierce my tongue with my teeth, bite copper, and warn myself: listen and do not interrupt.
Kirill shakes his head, fallen, soiled tresses curtain his face. “I’m murdering Asya. Might get tortured half to death. Maybe the Seven will grant me leniency.”
“It’s treason to threaten Nastiya’s life.”
“Nastiya?” Kirill juts his chin. The matted blond mane covering much of his face finally parts ways. “Sim know you have your own pet name for the Tsarina? Asya manipulating you the way she did my brat?”
“Shhhh.” I wave the gun. It’s the middle of the night. Though I stayed in Russia to see Asya returned, I’ve followed Simeon’s orders of keeping Kirill in a comatose state. “How could you even fathom she meant Luka any harm?”
“Everybody knew my brat was queer,” Kirill grits. “But Luka wasn’t just gay. He loved women, one woman. Her.”
“Kirill, you’re projecting your grief. You need someone to blame. The Tsarina is missing, and Simeon will find her.” At the rate he’s fucking going, I’ll leave this place and find her myself. “She was taken.”
“You’re such a pizda, Mikhail. That girl had Luka wrapped around her pinkie finger at the age of thirteen. He did anything for her. I’ve always believed him falling for men was because he pined for what belonged to Simeon.” Kirill glares through me. “Maybe four years ago, they started something—”
“Started what?”
“A relationship. Then she felt torn between the two. Things became tense while Sim was in prison, she fled. When she returned for Simeon, she and Luka—”
“Not plausible.”
“She and Luka,” he rei
terates, snarling, “caught eyes again or something. Luka, my sweet brat, said something, did something, and she grabbed the wheel.”
“Sounds like a Lifetime movie.” I chuckle.
Kirill blinks.
Shrugging, I admit to having only seen a commercial for one. I put down the gun. “Alright, Kirill. I believe you.”
The second he starts tinkering with the handcuffs, I replace the gun with the syringe and jam it into his neck. “You need a few more nights of sleep. Doctor’s orders.”
Around two a.m., the conversation with Kirill claws at my brain. Anastasiya belongs to Simeon, and it’s his right to find her. Why hasn’t he? I stalk out of the room I’ve shared with Kirill and gesture to the nearest byki to station himself at the door. Then I start down the hall, heading toward the room that mudak shared with the woman he never should’ve claimed.
I bang on the door.
“Mikhail,” another guard says.
“I’m speaking to my cousin now!”
“But he is not there.”
“Then where is he?” Anxious rage scorches across my skin. “Did he find her?”
“Nyet. Come.” He nods his head.
Almost ten minutes later, I’m standing at a door on the third floor. Prisoners are kept on this level. How is Simeon’s need for revenge more important than finding Anastasiya? Does he have a potential culprit, or someone who may be privy to her whereabouts inside?
I pull the handle, and open the door, shoulders squared, prepared for answers.
Through narrowed vision, I glare at Simeon on a low-seated couch. A leather-bound scroll is in his lap. He chews on the end of a gold pen, but his eyes are all over a maid. Her skirt is hemmed a lot shorter than the others, and her ass is in his face as she wipes at imaginary dust across the room.
“What the fuck are you doing, Simeon?” I grit out. Anastasiya is lost and either he’s relishing in the show or . . . or he’s deep in thought. I can’t fathom how much I’ve grown to hate this cousin of mine, so I refuse to believe the latter.
Simeon shakes his head, finally acknowledging me. “My dealings are not your business, Kazen.”
Pure rage tightens my jaw. “Enjoying your peep show?”
His dark eyes roll away from me.
“Why aren’t you searching for Anastasiya, Simeon?”
“Girl, come,” he orders like one would an animal.
With mile-long legs, the young maid drops her rag into a bucket on the floor and saunters to him. Standing up, Simeon twirls his finger. She turns her back toward him, eyeing me with a wink. Disgust burns red-hot up my esophagus as Simeon’s hand twines up the center of her chest and clasps her throat. “Mikhail, you’re so devoted to my woman. Allow me to show you what the fuck I’ll do to my little Tsarina when I catch her.”
I gasp. “Catch—”
“As in Anastasiya ran off. Nyet abduction.”
“What?” I snarl.
The whore’s face pales white as does Simeon’s knuckles as he claims her harder. His other hand roams over her low-buttoned blouse. “I’ll gut that pretty little heart out of Anastasiya’s chest, Mikhail, and own it forever.”
“I see.” My mouth twitches into a smile. I nod my head. At this precise moment, Oleg comes to fruition in my mind. Asya mentioned the name in her dreams, and because I give a damn about her, that’s where I’ll start. With a slight salute, I do an about-face and exit the room, closing it behind me.
“Never deserved her,” I mouth. Though I have no intention of leaving Russia until Anastasiya’s found, it is time I left this hellhole. First stop, Aunt Sofiya, because that bitch hides behind an all-knowing smile.
Chapter 22
Anastasiya
Eighteen days in, and I’ve counted every second. A pit of degradation surrounds me. The stench creeps into my nostrils, permeates my skin, mattes my hair. I glower at Oleg. He lets another photo from his collection slip from the tip of his fingers as he sits across from me on the floor.
“These are all the delights we’re unable to delve in, Anastasiya,” he says.
Images of more Invisible Things than I could give names to are piled between us.
The yellow rain has settled into my skin, coated my clothing. Finally, I open my mouth. Curiosity supersedes the need to keep quiet. “Is she dead?”
Another image drifts from his hands. The view is of an androgynous person, scars along every inch of his or her naked flesh.
“Is she dead?” My shout catches the eye of both Baldy and Chip.
“Who?” Oleg’s vibrant cerulean gaze claims my honey orbs. I stare on. “Oh . . . the one in commission when you and Ghost Girl—ahem—now dead suka caught my attention.”
I gulp. Ghost Girl must be in reference to Kosta. “Where’s the other girl?! You killed her?”
I cleave to his body language, the slight curve of his mouth, the subtle rise of his gigantic chest. I cling to everything. His response will be my fuel. Today, I save my life. He flips through the stack and pulls one out, dropping it in front of me.
“You killed her.” I declare again, breathing in more of the stench I currently live in. My eyes burn as I stare at the Invisible Thing.
“You’re mistaken, Anastasiya.” Oleg paws at my cheek. I hold steady, and he gasps. “Nyet flinching? Nyet spitting in my mouth—”
“I didn’t—”
“You were but a girl, though a temptress.”
My jaw tightens. I’d never been more afraid in my life, still haven’t, when Oleg cornered me in that classroom. I’d spat at him.
“Best taste I ever had. Do it again.”
“Oleg, tell me the truth. You murdered her,” I growl. Give me fuel to do what I must.
“I’m no murderer.” He shrugs and taps the photo. “The one who accompanied me during my visits with you, well, her heart stopped beating one day.”
“How? Was she tied up when it occurred? Locked in a cage? Being raped by you?! How?”
“She died in the midst of doing all the beautiful little delights Irek has denied us.”
Noticing the tears collecting in my eyes, Chip clears his throat. “It stinks in here. Let the girl shower. Then you can reconvene with your horror stories.”
Ten minutes later, fog plumes across the tiny area of the bathroom in a routine I’ve grown accustomed to.
“You’ve been mouthy today, girl.” Baldy plants his thumb across the thin barrier of cloth over my shoulder. Either he’s gotten used to my daily yellow shower, or he’s horny. “You plan to fully undress to bathe today?”
“I’ve grown accustomed to the cold while drying in my shirt.” I grab the clean pair of jeans from Chip. They’d gotten a pair of sweats from Oleg the first night after I’d almost died of coughs and sneezes in heavy, wet jeans. Since then, I’ve alternated between the sweats and the jeans. I place them on the porcelain sink top. When I turn around, they’re both staring.
“You couldn’t have gotten me a shirt too?”
“This isn’t a luxurious hotel, Castle Girl,” Baldy sneers.
“Oleg refused,” Chip adds.
Rolling my eyes, I shove my sweats down, kicking the cotton pants away from my feet. The shirt I’m wearing always dries against my skin. But when I bend over, Baldy’s gaze smolders against my thong. How could he find this attractive? I’m drenched in a sadist’s piss and have too much pride to give them a good look.
On graceful toes, I get into the shower. The water clings to my shirt.
“You should at least remove your bra . . .” Baldy says, readjusting the gun in his hand.
I roll my eyes and turn toward him. “I’m in cuffs, remember? You do it for me.”
From my peripheral, Chip, whose conscious is less murky, folds his arms. The men exchange glances. Baldy presses his arm inward, garnering a tighter hold on the gun as he reaches forward.
“Should I?” Chip asks Baldy, gesturing toward the gun.
“Nyet, you can’t aim for shit.” The older man snorts. No, he wants
all control. To get a good look at my breasts and hold the gun at the same time. Then his eyes swallow me whole. “I can help the little Castle Girl. She wouldn’t dare try anything with this gun in my hands.”
I toss my head back, the coils of my hair unmasking my face. “Yes, a poor, helpless female is what I am.”
“Turn around,” Baldy snaps.
“Why? It’s a front latch bra,” I lie, needing to keep him in my line of vision.
His pink tongue darts over his lip again. Baldy angles his right elbow tight to his ribs. His left hand reaches out, plays up the tail of my shirt, pawing at the flesh of my ass.
“Help her with the bra as she asked of you. Nothing else,” Chip grumbles.
“Oh, I am,” Baldy says, inching a little closer to me.
My forehead assaults his nostrils. Baldy and I go falling with him on top of me. A sharp pain, comparable to being stabbed with a needle, zeros through the side of my ribs.
“Fuck!” I screech. The bullet that went through my flesh clips into the porcelain wall. Again and again, I rear up and slaughter Baldy with my head. I flip my body around, slam a foot into Chip’s face as he reaches down to grab me.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
The next hit goes into his privates. He slams to his knees, and I grip my thighs around his neck and twist. His dead body slumps sideways and on top of Baldy. The older guard groans. In a seated position, I press myself back until I’m parallel to the two. From behind, I feel for the keys in Chip’s utility belt. My eyes glare through Baldy as he grunts and shakes his head. He shoves Chip off of him. With one cuff off, I grip Chip’s gun and shoot Baldy between the eyes.
Brain foggy from battering the older guard’s face, I jump into a standing position. I hoist myself into the jeans. I pull up the wet shirt, blood oozing beneath my left breast. A chunk of skin is missing where that mudak shot me. I drop it and hurry into my shoes.
There’s banging at the door. Gripping the gun, I smile.