by LK Shaw
My throat hurts. As do my wrists and ankles from trying to loosen my bonds, but they haven’t budged. A rumble from my stomach echoes around me. A headache continues to pound away at my temples, the constant throbbing making me queasy. It’s only made worse by my hunger. When did I last eat? Yesterday? Two days ago? Three? Time is endless in the dark.
I wish Death would return. Stop toying with me. I’m almost at my breaking point. I can withstand nearly anything he does to me. Except the dark. If I close my eyes and sleep, maybe he’ll come to me in my dreams. I force myself to relax and slow my breathing. My body grows heavy, and despite the cold dampness inside the room, I begin to drift.
The sharp, metallic click of a lock disengaging brings my head up. I drowsily open my eyes and focus on the blackness in front of me. A tiny beam of light appears and grows larger, exposing the giant silhouette. The fiery red orbs glow brightly. He’s returned. I smile, almost deliriously, as though greeting an old friend.
“After all these years have you finally come to take me back to hell with you?” I whisper, although I’m not sure why I bother.
“Hell?” he asks just as softly. “Is that where you think you belong?”
His gentle questions startle me. He’s never spoken to me before.
“Mama thought so,” I answer solemnly, staring into the inky darkness. Something about his voice tickles the back of my mind, but like a wisp of smoke, it vanishes into thin air.
“Where is your mother now?”
“Dead.” The nagging sensation returns. He is Death. Shouldn’t he know that?
“Your father?”
It’s that question that snaps me fully awake. My eyes shoot open, and I go rigid. I become aware of my surroundings. The earthy smell. The cool, dampness of the room. This isn’t another one of my dreams. The rope burns around my wrists and ankles begin to pain me again.
“Your father?” he prompts again, almost impatiently.
I remain silent. I’ve spilled one secret too many. The man across from me reaches out and flips the light switch. The room brightens and we lock gazes. I can’t suppress the shiver at the cold, emotionless stare he directs at me.
His nostrils flare as though he can scent my fear. He probably can. This man is a predator. The top of the food chain. I have to guard myself, because the minute I show any weakness, he’ll devour me whole.
“I’ll have to remember that the dark loosens your tongue.”
I ignore the jab. “How long are you going to keep me here?”
He leans against the doorframe, the top of his head almost brushing the underside of it, and crosses his arms, striking an imposing figure with his massive body. Elaborate tattoos decorate his bared right forearm. They disappear beneath his rolled shirt sleeve and then reappear above the collar.
“I’m not sure you’re in a position to ask questions.” The devilish red eyes, and skull tattoo that adorns his throat, shift and contort in a macabre fashion. I can’t pull my gaze from it.
He unfolds his frame and strides farther into the room, closing the door behind him. The click of the latch reminds me of the clang of a cymbal. Sharp and piercing. On its heels is another grumble from my stomach. This one louder than the last. My bladder is also making demands that soon, I will no longer be able to ignore. Unlike my hunger. It’s not the first time I’ve had to go without.
“Would you like something to eat?” Death asks. “If you’re hungry, I’m sure we could work out an exchange.”
I’ve had food dangled in front of me before, tempting me to give someone else what he wanted. I’d succumbed to that bribe in a moment of weakness. I’ve never regretted anything more.
Mikhail told me how much the Italians hate the Russians. He boasted how they would never help me, even if I begged. So I won’t. Not even for food.
Not even for Anya? A nagging voice inside me asks.
I ignore the bothersome thing. It is pointless. This man is going to kill me once he gets whatever it is he seeks. Either way, Anya is forever lost to me. My heart cracks at that, but my lips remain sealed.
He closes the distance between us and squats in front of me, balancing on the balls of his feet. Because of his height, this puts us at eye level. His gaze flits over my face. He reaches toward me. I can’t control my flinch, but he merely grasps a few strands of my chopped-off hair—my one true regret—and gently rolls them between his fingertips. I want to jerk away from his touch, but I hold myself still.
His own is damp at the roots, darkening the dirty blond to brown. Had he showered while he’d been away? The thought alone makes me self-conscious. It’s been days since I’ve been able to bathe. A few longer than it’s been since I’ve eaten.
Death’s gaze returns to meet mine. We stare each other down. For the briefest moment, I can almost swear a flicker of…something shows in his eyes. It’s gone so fast I blame it on my imagination. There is nothing more there. They’re still just as cold and empty as they had been the first time he turned on the light. Which raises the hair on the back on my neck. I’ve never been good at reading people, but something tells me Mikhail may have underestimated this man’s hatred.
“For a Russian, you impress me.” He releases my hair.
I can’t stop the snort. “It must not take much, then.”
I’m not sure what he thinks his back-handed compliment will earn him. I only wish he would kill me and be done with it. Although, perhaps this is his plan. To keep me alive so he can torment me with false praise. Or make me beg. Something I vow not to do.
“It does, actually,” he says, and I shake off my distraction.
“What does?” My forehead crinkles.
“It takes a lot to impress me.”
Unable to understand this shift from villain to complimenter, I simply lift a shoulder. “Good for you.”
I brace myself for another round of abuse, but none comes. Instead, he rises to his feet and walks away. My eyes follow his movements. As they do, I take in the windowless room. Against one gray-tinged cement wall is a tall, black metal tool chest with five drawers of varying height. Parked beside it is a small metal table. The overhead lighting reflects brightly off the shiny surface.
My mouth dries at the sturdy-looking chains with cuffs dangling from the ceiling almost directly over a drain in the downward-slanting floor. I quickly look away, not wanting to draw Death’s attention to them—as though he’s not already fully aware of their presence.
The only other thing in the room is an industrial sink built into the wall with a gray plastic bucket and a giant jug of off-brand bleach stored beneath it. A shiver skates down my spine imagining what use they have for either of those things.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says.
My gaze snaps to his. I scoff. “You mean more than you already have?”
His eyes shift from cold to arctic, and his expression tightens further with not an ounce of sympathy. I shouldn’t have expected any. Aside from the rage he expressed at my initial refusal to answer his questions, Death hasn’t shown a single emotion. It’s almost as though he doesn’t have any.
“Believe me when I tell you that nothing I’ve done to you has hurt. If you think otherwise, I can show you what real pain feels like,” he says in a deadly voice.
“You have no idea what causes me hurt.”
He cocks his head. “I can take a guess.”
I curse my stupid tongue. When will I ever learn to keep my mouth shut?
“If I were to turn out the lights and leave you alone in here—in pitch black darkness—would that hurt?” The question is asked gently, as though he’s genuinely curious and not taunting me.
I’m not fooled though. I hadn’t been able to control my terror when he left the last time. He sensed it, which is why he mocked me at his departure. He doesn’t need confirmation.
“I can take it away, you know. The hurt. All you have to do is answer my questions,” he says smoothly.
Hysterical laughter threatens t
o bubble out of me. I don’t know what questions he thinks I have answers to. Will he kill me when he discovers that?
“Will you make it painless?” I ask.
He studies me, his expression inscrutable. “Make what painless?”
“My death.”
He leans against the wall with his powerful arms crossed. “What makes you think I’m going to kill you?”
“Because I’m Russian. Isn’t that what you do? Kill us?” My voice is still raspy from my screams.
“There are worse things I could do to you.”
Nausea curdles in my belly. “Mikhail was right, then,” I say, absently.
“Right about what?”
“That you know nothing about mercy. Your hatred is all you care about.” It’s the wrong thing to say. In the blink of an eye, his hand is wrapped around my throat, and the anger I thought banked roars to the surface. Death’s expression contorts with rage. His grip is so constricting, I can barely breathe. I’m too drained to fight, though.
“Don’t fucking speak to me about mercy. Your people kidnapped and brutalized an eighteen year old girl for five straight days. I have every goddamn right to my hatred,” he spits.
My vision goes dim, and I’m getting lightheaded. Finally, he releases his hold on me with another curse. I slowly pull in air and will the wooziness away. The stabbing pain in my head has only been made worse.
“They’re not my people,” I manage softly once I’m sure I won’t pass out.
“What?” he snaps.
After taking in a few more breaths, I raise my head, blinking to bring him into focus. “I said, they’re not my people.”
“Bullshit. You’re Russian. That means you belong with them.”
My expression tightens. “I belong with no one.”
Death pauses. I hate the way he stares blankly at me. It only increases the terror I try, and no doubt fail, to hide. For once in my life, I’d like to not be afraid. Just once. A sudden burst of self-pity slams into me and stabs me straight in the chest. I choke back a sob.
I didn’t cry when my mother died. Nor when Mikhail discovered me infiltrating his compound and had me beaten. I haven’t even shed a tear at the loss of Anya. The only person to make me cry—to use my tears against me—had been Maksim. Given the chance, this man before me will do the same.
Without another word, he turns his back and heads for the door, his steps quick, as though he can’t bear to be in the same room as me.
“Wait—stop—don’t leave. I have to”—my mouth slams shut in sudden embarrassment.
Death pivots and stares at me in that cruel way. “You have to what?”
My face heats, and I can’t meet his gaze. He makes a sound of disgust and moves to leave again.
“I have to pee,” I blurt out. Who knows how long he’ll be gone this time. Dare I hope he takes me from his room? Maybe I can get away.
My eyes finally connect with his, and I raise my chin, trying desperately to maintain my stare. There’s a heavy pause. I try not to fidget under his flinty gaze.
“Drain or sink?” he asks.
I don’t understand the question. “What?”
Death stares pointedly at me. “Drain or sink?” he repeats, only slower.
My eyes widen in understanding. No way does he want me to use either of those. And certainly not in front of him. I shake my head in disbelief. He can’t possibly.
“You’re not leaving this room until you answer my questions. Which means if you have to piss, you can either do it in the drain,”—he gestures with his chin in one direction, then another—“or the sink. The choice is yours.”
Neither of those are choices. Fuck him. “I hate you,” I seethe, even though it doesn’t take a genius to figure out he doesn’t care.
“You have three seconds to decide.” He crosses those arms again and waits, no doubt counting in his head.
When I don’t respond, he pivots.
“Drain,” I spit out in a rush, humiliation coursing through me.
He pauses mid-turn and glances over his shoulder. My jaw clenches. I won’t repeat myself. With a slow pace he moves in front of me, and without breaking eye contact, crouches, and begins to untie me. Ankles first. Then wrists. I rub the burns, wincing, trying to get the blood flowing. Death rises to his feet and takes a step back, sweeping his hand out for me to proceed.
“I don’t suppose you’ll give me a little privacy?” I snap.
His eyebrow raises in a cool gesture. My steps are shaky as I make my way slightly off to the side of the chair I’d been seated in. I despise this man with every fiber of my being.
With trembling fingers I unbutton my pants. My gaze drifts from his. I can no longer look at him. Just get it over with. In almost a single motion I pull them down and squat. I quickly finish and rush to cover myself again.
Before I can question the stupidity of my decision, I bolt toward the door. A heavy weight crashes into me just as my fingers graze the knob. My arms are captured and bound to my sides, and my body is pinned to the cold steel surface. My breath escapes with an oof. I struggle to pull in another. It’s nearly impossible with the man caging me within his powerful frame.
“I hate you! Let me go.” My demand comes out hoarse and barely above a whisper. Death presses his entire body against mine. The rigid line of his cock pokes into my back. I cease all movement, completely paralyzed with fear. I tremble, and no matter how much I try, I can’t stop. My breathing is harsh and ragged.
“Did you really think you could get away from me, piccola fata?” he rasps in my ear. His breath is hot against my skin, and another shiver dances across my neck and down my spine. “Or was that your plan all along? Tempt the predator to chase the prey? You like that kind of thing?”
I try to shake my head, but the effort is lost with my cheek squashed against the door. “No, please.”
I hate him even more for making me beg.
The pressure of Death’s body leaves mine and he yanks me back. He wraps an arm around my waist and lifts me, nearly dragging me back to the chair. After so many days without food, I have no strength to fight anymore. I’d stupidly wasted it all on my useless attempt to escape. I drop into the seat like a rag doll, limp and languid, and can’t exert the energy to resist his tying me up again.
“Perhaps I didn’t give you enough time to make the right decision,” he taunts.
I have no reply. He can do whatever he wants. He will anyway. I sag listlessly in the chair, and for the first time ever, I welcome the dark. My eyes close while I wait for him to go. There’s no movement to indicate he’s left, and the faint bit of light still shines through my lids.
I drag my eyes open to find Death hadn’t moved. He’s staring at me with confusion on his face. Not caring, I once again close my lids to hide him from view. Long seconds pass before, finally, there’s the snick of the door. It’s even longer before I open my eyes again.
I’m alone.
This time, though, the light remains on.
Chapter 4
Pierce
* * *
The yeasty scent of bread, as well as fresh coffee, hits me as soon as I open the front door of the home I share with Francesca.
Cooking is one of my sister’s favorite things to do. Although, she’s not usually up this early to make breakfast. Then again, maybe she is, since I’m the one not typically home at this hour.
I toe off my shoes and leave them neatly sitting on the hardwood of the entryway. It’s a childhood habit I haven’t been able to break, no matter the conscious effort I’ve made to stop.
I move through the living room toward the kitchen, not attempting to be quiet. I don’t want to spook Francesca. It’s been seven years since Jacob and I rescued her from the Russians, and she still startles easily. She turns at my entrance and blinks in surprise.
“You’re back already? Didn’t you just leave a couple hours ago?” she asks.
“How did you know? I thought you were sleeping.” I b
rush a kiss across her temple.
“You know I’m a light sleeper. I heard you come home, shower, and leave again.” She playfully smacks my roving hand as I reach for a piece of fette biscottate on the plate in front of her. “Since you’re here, get the jam out of the fridge first.”
I send her a narrow-eyed glare, but Francesca merely stares me down with hands on her hips, not even flinching at my expression. She and Jacob are the only two people I can’t seem to intimidate. With a sigh, I do as she says, while she pours us both a caffè e latte.
“Sit.” She waves me over to the table.
Once I’m seated, she brings me a mug and the plate of hard bread. I wait until she takes a seat with her own cup before I help myself to a piece and start slathering her homemade strawberry jam on it.
“Not that I’m complaining about you being home so early, but I’m a little surprised. Usually you don’t come wandering in for a few more hours after you and Jacob have been out late taking care of business.” Francesca emphasizes the last word with air quotes. “And you definitely don’t come tiptoeing in during the middle of the night, shower, leave again, and then show up barely past the crack of dawn. Did Gianna kick you out?”
I choke on my bread. A few sips of my caffè e latte finally clears my throat. How the hell does my sister know about her?
“You okay?” she asks when I can breathe again.
No, I’m not. As a matter of fact, everything is fucked.
“What do you mean you’re leaving?” Gianna, who’s lying nearly naked on her bed, pouts. “You just got here.”
I stare down at her in frustration and slowly building anger. We were lovers before I left Brooklyn seven years ago and resumed our affair when I returned. She’s been one of the few women I’ve fucked who can take everything I give and isn’t shy about getting a little dirty. Our encounters are about fulfilling a sexual need. There aren’t any feelings involved. At least not on my part. So what the fuck is wrong with me?
“My mind is elsewhere.”