Thirty Days of Pain

by Ginger Talbot

  Our mission.

  Me. Feodyr. Jasha. Maks. Slavik. We are the survivors.

  My computer is open, and I should be reviewing reports from the managers of my shipping company, but my mind is elsewhere.

  I pace back and forth in my office. I can’t get last night out of my mind.

  I touch the braided sinew strap on my wrist, trying to draw strength from it. The strength to drive all images of Willow from my mind. It fails me.

  When I saw Willow trembling and sobbing on the bed, I wanted to be inside her so badly that I hurt. That’s all right. Pain is not the enemy.

  But need is. I do not let myself need, or want. I thought that had been beaten and burned out of me long ago.

  I kick a chair in frustration, knocking it over with a loud clatter.

  The door opens and Jasha sticks his head in. Head of my security team. A big, brutal man, his face and hands scarred from a fire that will never stop burning him.

  He looks at me, he looks at the chair, he walks back out. He won’t come in again unless I call for him. He knows me too well, knows my black moods.

  Why did I make Vilyat give her to me? Why didn’t I take one of his children, and lock them away in a dark room with no windows, and send him recordings of their cries? Or I could have taken his drugged-out whore of a wife. That would have been even more humiliating for him. Anastasia is still beautiful. I could have taken her again and again while she wept, violated every orifice, while Vilyat’s former bodyguards watched and then took their turns.

  But I chose Willow instead.

  The truth is, I’ve craved Willow since the first time I saw her, hiding and watching me at her uncle’s place, with that mixture of fear and fascination. I’ve dreamed about her rosy lips wrapping around my cock. I’ve dreamed about shoving myself inside her tight little cunt. For the past year, every time I’ve taken another woman, laid the lash across her back, I’ve imagined that her cries of pain and ecstasy were Willow’s.

  Even more truth – when I demanded one of Vilyat’s children, I wasn’t just striking a killing blow to his pride. I knew that Willow would never let that happen. She’d take a bullet for those kids – unlike their piece of crap father. I knew that Willow would come to me.

  When I let Willow offer herself up as a sacrifice, I told myself it would kill two birds with one stone – it would be the final nail in Vilyat’s coffin, and I would have a month to screw her right out of my system.

  So why the hell did I go so easy on her when I punished her last night? And why didn’t I take her, when she was all but begging for it?

  Because I wanted it too much. I craved her with an intensity that alarmed me. This desire was a weakness. There was an end-game in sight, and it went beyond the destruction of Vilyat. This was the culmination of my revenge, after years and years of planning. It was too important; I couldn’t let myself get distracted.

  An image flashes through my mind.

  My brother’s blue eyes, staring up at the gray winter sky. Empty. The spark of life gone from them. His smile… Pyotr was always the sweet one in our family. He never met an enemy. No, that’s not true, he just never knew when he’d met an enemy until it was too late. His bubbling laughter, stilled forever.

  I’d vowed to rescue him. I’d lied. I’d sent him from one hell to another. His death had been the stuff of nightmares, and he’d died alone, without me there to comfort him in his final moments.

  I died with him that day…the old Sergei died, and a new one rose from the grave. A Sergei who was forged in the fires of hell, and who burned for one thing – vengeance.

  I hear a crash, and realize I’ve hurled a vase against the wall. A hundred thousand dollars now lies scattered across the floor in thick, curved shards. That happens every now and then – the world goes black, and when I come back, I’ve broken something. Or someone.

  I swallow my fury. Willow is one of them. Their filthy money cosseted her and clothed her.

  Why should I show her mercy of the kind that her family never showed me and mine? My brother’s suffering paid for her pearls and Hermes bags.

  Should I run in there and drag her out of her room by the hair? Strip the blankets from her room so she can’t hide beneath them again tonight...let her know there’s nowhere she can hide from my rage? Take her bed and make her sleep on the cold, hard floor?

  I groan and punch the wall.

  I know all about her. She’s a victim of the Toporov family just like everyone else – more than she will ever know. There is much they haven’t told her. She is innocent, I know that – she never asked for this. The obscene wealth, the flashy lifestyle…she never wanted any of it.

  And I don’t give a fuck.

  She wants me. She craves me. I could drown myself in her, I could have her for as long as I want. Forever. She could be my peace, my comfort.

  I deserve no comfort. Pyotr died and I lived.

  I need to drive her away, hurt her until she hates the sight of me.

  I resolve to go harder on her. I will carry out my plan. I haven’t come all this way to let a pair of sad eyes and a stupidly tender heart derail me.

  WILLOW

  Galina delivers breakfast to my room, and the buttery smells drifting from the tray make my stomach rumble.

  I am finally starting to get my appetite back. In fact, I’m a little light-headed.

  She sets the tray down on the table with a loud clang and takes the domed silver cover off the main dish.

  I look down at an omelet and feel a stab of anger. There’s a big glob of spit sitting right in the middle of it.

  Her eyes are glowing with malice. “You should try the coffee,” she sneers. “It’s really good.”

  I meet her gaze without blinking. “I’ll bet.”

  She stands there for a long, long moment, staring at me. Finally, she blinks first. I’m sure she hates me for that.

  “Are you going to eat your breakfast?”

  “Nope.”

  Her lips curve up, like she’s just won a skirmish. “I’ll be sure to let the chef know.”

  She picks up the tray and flounces out of the room.

  I wait until she’s gone, then I go into the bathroom and drink some water.

  My stomach is rumbling, and I am light-headed from hunger.

  With nothing else to do, I leave my room and take a walk through the house. Sergei is standing there in the enormous foyer, tucking a cell phone into his pocket.

  I remind myself that he let me wear the robe last night. And he made me come. And he rubbed ice on my sore skin.

  “I was going to go out and walk in the garden, if that’s all right, sir,” I say to him. Saying ‘sir’ to someone I sort-of had sex with feels so strange and wrong. Then again, everything about this situation is strange and wrong.

  He gives me a bland, disinterested look. “Do I look like I care what you do with your time? When I want you, I can assure you, I’ll be able to find you.”

  “The gardens are beautiful.” I babble when I’m nervous. “Did you design them?”

  He gives me a look of utter contempt and disgust. “Trying to establish rapport with your jailer?” he sneers. “Did you read Surviving a Kidnapping for Dummies before you came here?”

  All my hurt and frustration boils up inside me. This man touched me with the lightest of touches last night while we had sex, and gave me earth-shattering pleasure. And now he’s back to treating me like something you’d scrape off your shoe.

  “No, sir, I was just trying to have a normal, civilized conversation with another human being. It won’t happen again.”

  “See that it doesn’t,” he says coldly, and walks off.

  I head for the front door, walk outside, and loop around through the gardens. My heart clenches in my chest.

  Being obedient and respectful doesn’t work. Talking back doesn’t work. The frustration wells up inside me. I’m a problem-solver. I’m a helper. I like to make things better for people. And there is literally no
solution to this problem – at least, not one that I can see. What haven’t I tried yet? Would it help if I pretended to love his abuse, if I came to him and begged for sex?

  No. I’m a terrible actress, and he’d know that I was lying.

  My stomach rumbles out loud. I remember I saw some orange trees toward the back of the property, and I head out there, snatch an orange off a tree, and inhale it hungrily. Then I eat a second one. They’re deliciously sweet, and they stave off the hunger pangs, even though I crave something more substantial.

  I start searching for somewhere to throw the peels away. I find a garbage container decorated like a giant stone urn. As I’m tossing the peels in, I hear a voice crying out to me.

  “Majka!” I turn, and the little boy is running toward me. With a heavy heart, I think that I shouldn’t have come here again. Whatever the poor kid wants from me, I can’t give him.

  But since I’m here now, I’m hardly going to reject him. I can spend a few minutes with him at least.

  I kneel down next to him.

  “Majka!” he insists, and hugs me. I point at him. “What’s your name?” I ask.

  He looks at me with a puzzled expression.

  “Lukas! Lukas!” I hear someone calling. I pick him up, and walk until I find the older couple.

  When they try to take him, he clings to me and snarls. Like an animal. They look at each other and shake their heads in frustration.

  Finally, reluctantly, the man reaches into his pocket and pulls out a book.

  It’s a picture book in Czech. I sit down on the grass and try to sound out the words. The boy laughs, leaning in to me.

  The older woman sits on the grass next to him and strokes his hair, and he chatters happily with her. He’s not afraid of her, or of the older man. Thank God for that.

  Suddenly, the answer occurs to me.

  This little boy must be Sergei’s son. Why else would he be here, and dressed so beautifully? The older couple look absolutely nothing like Sergei. They’re short and skinny, so I don’t think they could possibly be Sergei’s parents. Assuming he even has parents. The evil bastard is so cold-blooded, I can only imagine he hatched from an egg.

  So maybe they’re Lukas’ maternal grandparents?

  But my realization raises more questions than answers. Where is the boy’s mother?

  Did Sergei do something to her?

  Why doesn’t Lukas live with him, in his house?

  I glance back at the mansion, at my exquisite prison full of pain and pleasure and sorrow.

  “I should go,” I tell the older woman, and I stand up. She nods with relief, but Lukas starts to cry.

  My heart is heavy as I walk back to the house.

  Chapter Eight

  SERGEI

  Afternoon, day three…

  Galina’s report infuriates me so much that red swims in front of my vision. She tells me that Willow not only refused her breakfast this morning, she spat on it.

  I am outside on the back patio when she tells me, sitting with Feodyr, Slavik, Karl, and Mikhail. We were just finishing up lunch, checking out the pictures of a Russian seaport official who died at my men’s hands yesterday.

  Jasha gestures at the red bowl of borscht. “Kind of looks like his face right now,” he says, and my men laugh.

  We’d invited the man to work with us, and he’d declined. Not because he was too honest; if only we could find an honest official. He’d declined because he was in the pocket of local rivals, and he thought they could protect him. He thought wrong.

  When Galina tells me what Willow did, I spit curses and slam my hand down on the table so hard that the dishes clatter.

  “She’s in the drawing room,” Galina says eagerly.

  “That bitch,” Karl scoffs. “She always thought she was a princess.”

  It occurs to me that Willow’s barely eaten since she got here. I should have noticed her arrogant rejection of my food, should have punished her for it earlier.

  I’ve been too busy putting the final plans in place. Bribing the right officials. Making sure that my men are where they need to be.

  Her insult makes me so angry I could tear through walls.

  I remember the hungry years back in Russia. That sick, dizzy, hollow feeling. The sensation of being gnawed from the inside by rats. Men taunting us, waving food in front of us and then snatching it away. The others weeping, begging. I never wept, I never begged, and our tormentors made sure I suffered for it.

  Who is she to scorn my food? To scorn the hard work of preparing it? To mock my hospitality? I’ll show her the high price of her arrogance.

  I storm down the hall to the drawing room, with the men at my heels. She’s sitting there in a pale pink dress, curled up on a soft suede couch, reading a magazine. I slap the magazine out of her hands. She gasps in surprise and fear. She has no idea why I’m so angry. Spoiled little American girl who has never known a day of hunger.

  Her gaze shoots to the doorway, and I see Galina has followed us. She is standing there, watching, with a smirk twisting her lips.

  Galina catches my gaze and looks down, then quickly hurries off.

  It’s time to move her somewhere else.

  I brought her here because she had provided me with valuable information, at great personal risk. Keeping her on my property was a way of keeping her safe from retribution. Not that I give a fuck what happens to the stupid bitch – but I am sending a message to the people in my territories. Work for me and you will be safe. Go against me and you will die screaming – like the men that Galina informed on.

  Putting her to work keeps her busy and out of my hair. I know she wants more from me. She’s offered herself to me many times. I let her service me once, found her manufactured shrieks of pleasure grated on my ears, and sent her away.

  Willow leaps to her feet, mouth open in shock.

  I slap her face, a stinging slap, but light as a butterfly’s wing compared to what I could do to her.

  I can see a perfect handprint on the smooth, pale flesh of her left cheek. Tears stream down her cheeks. “What did I do?” she cries out, looking genuinely bewildered, and for some reason, I feel a clenching in my gut.

  I summon my strength.

  Since when do I hesitate when I’m about to strike a blow?

  Since never.

  “I don’t need a fucking reason.”

  She doesn’t argue. She looks down at the ground, pale, tears brimming in her eyes. “Yes, sir.” She chokes out the words and clenches her fists. She’s shaking all over.

  I wish she’d fight me, so I’d have a reason to strike her again even harder. To punish her. To hurt her. But she looks down, shoulders hunched, trembling. The way she’s biting her lip – I know she’s furious. But she’s too loyal to her family to lash out and attack me. She’ll sit there and take whatever I dish out, for their sakes.

  I stand there for a long, long moment, letting my rage build, and build, and she holds my gaze. Tears shimmer in her enormous blue eyes.

  I bite out each word. “You spit on your food, and you ask me what you did?”

  At that, she looks at me in shock. “I did not. Sir. Galina spit on the food, and told me she’d put something in my coffee.”

  “Right.” I sneer at her. “And you conveniently failed to mention that when you saw me this morning.”

  She draws herself up. Trembling and courageous. “I’m not some little schoolyard snitch. I’m not trying to get anyone in trouble. I’m just telling you why I didn’t eat my breakfast.”

  Doubt wavers. I don’t want it to be true, because her decency and bravery are getting under my skin, shaming me to my very core, and I fucking hate it.

  “Don’t lie to me!” I throw her back down on the couch, and before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve straddled her and pinned her hands over her head with one hand. Oh, my God, do I want her. My cock is ready to slash its way out of my pants to get to her pussy. I want her so much that I don’t dare take her.

 
; I raise my free hand to slap her again. Instead of cringing, she pins me with her unwavering blue gaze. “You can do anything you want to me, but at least admit why you’re doing it, sir. Because you hate me for no reason at all, not because I spit in my food.”

  Ah, there’s that fire.

  “Fucking right I can do anything I want to you.” I reach down and cup her breast in my hand and squeeze it, hard. She whimpers.

  God. That sound. So sexy.

  “I am not lying to you, sir. Why would I lie?” There’s a bite to the way that she says sir, a sassiness, that makes my cock twitch.

  I look down at her. “Last chance to tell me the truth.”

  “I am telling you the truth. Sir.”

  As she says that, I hear her stomach rumble, and she blushes.

  And I realize that I know she’s not lying to me – I just don’t want to admit it to myself.

  Forget transferring Galina.

  Galina knows the rules. She knows what happens to people who lie to me.

  I growl in rage. I climb off her and order a tray of food from the kitchen.

  It’s there in minutes. My men stand back and wait, silently.

  Willow sits at a table, hunches over her food and wolfs down the roast beef sandwich and the slice of chocolate cake. Now I feel something like remorse. That gnawing feeling of hunger…it is my fault. And she didn’t even rat Galina out when she could have.

  I have one of my servants take the food tray away, and I tell him to call Galina back. She rushes into the room. She’s smiling, eager.

  “Take off your clothes for me, Galina. Sweetheart.” I say it gently. If she knew me any better, she’d be terrified.

  She is wearing a form-fitting, scoop-necked yellow dress. She yanks it over her head in one swift movement and drops it to the floor, then steps out of her panties. She is glowing with delight, shooting looks of scorn and triumph at Willow.

  “Yes, sir,” she says eagerly. “What can I do for you now, sir? Would you like to punish me?”

  Oh, she has no idea.