by Jasmin Quinn
Nika lay frozen, waiting for the pain, but he stroked her finger instead. “Your hands are cold, perhaps your feet are too. That’s good. I don’t want you comfortable at all.” He gave her finger one more painful tug and then flipped her over so that her hands were pushed up against the back of the seat. “Stay that way. I’m as impulsive as you, Nika Petrova. If you tell me to fuck off again, I might throw you into the ditch and leave you there to die.”
Nika knew that Lukov knew he couldn’t do that. That if he killed her, he would be a dead man. She was as valuable to Rusya Savisin as she was to Mr. Jackman. Lukov couldn’t be so stupid as to think his words of intimidation were working. But Rusya must have only told Lukov to bring her to him alive. He must have forgot to specify to also keep her well.
At some point in the journey, Peter pulled over to the side of the road and got out of the car. Nika was suddenly alone with Lukov and icy dread crept down her spine. But Lukov ignored her and when Peter returned he had a blanket in his hand. He draped it over Nika, leaving her head exposed. “As soon as we are in the city of Victoria, we will cover your head. If you try to remove the blanket, we will have no choice but to put you in the trunk or knock you out.”
“I like that idea,” Lukov grunted from the front.
Peter said mildly, “Be a good girl Nika. The only one getting hurt here is you.” He closed the back door firmly before sliding behind the steering wheel and driving off.
Hours later, when they arrived at their destination, Nika was so sore she thought she might not be able to walk. Peter parked the car in a garage and as the door closed, darkness momentarily dropped over her. Then Lukov stepped out of the car and started shouting orders. Nika thought perhaps she wasn’t the only one who thought Lukov an asshole. An unfamiliar face opened the door by her head, and she briefly wondered if she would see Anto. She hoped not; she was worried she might blow his cover. As she was roughly pulled from the car, fury washed over her again. But she decided she would keep it close to her heart for now, unleash it later, when she had a plan and a weapon. She was thrown over the Russian’s shoulder and carried like a sack up some stairs and into the house. At least she thought it was a house. More stairs and then a room with a bed and a bathroom. The man dropped her onto the bed as Peter appeared behind him.
“Nika,” he said softly in Russian as he sat down beside her on the bed. “I’m going to free you now. But don’t yell or struggle. First, it’s hopeless. No one will hear you and you’re outnumbered. Lukov would be happy to have another shot at you. He doesn’t like being bitten. Second, you’ve been tied up for hours – you don’t want me to have to tie you up again.” He looked into Nika’s face. “Nod if you agree.”
Nika nodded as she looked into the Russian’s face. He had soft blue eyes that were shuttered. They weren’t dead and they weren’t angry. She felt a little spark of hope that not all the Russians were as brutal as Lukov. He hesitated, and she nodded again appealing to him with her eyes – hoping they appeared soft and yielding. She needed to be free, she needed to get the feeling back in her limbs, stretch them out so she was limber and ready to run when the chance came. And she needed some water and the bathroom. She was glad it was Peter and not Lukov. She didn’t think she could pretend with Lukov.
Peter ungagged her first, and as the rag was pulled from her mouth, she took deep gulping breaths. She tried to speak, but her throat was too dry. Peter shook his head at her. “Don’t talk.”
She clamped her lips together as he freed her hands and feet, then stood up, towering over her. “There’s the bathroom, with towels if you want to shower. I’ll bring some food and water. Behave Nika. No one is coming to rescue you.”
Then he left, closing the door behind him, and sliding a bolt in place. Nika lay on the bed, counting her breaths, keeping them steady, grateful for the stale air she was breathing. As her blood flow increased, her feet and hands started to prickle; the pins and needles slowly and painfully making their way up her legs and arms. She flexed her fingers slowly, felt their resistance, then tried her feet. As she did a mental check of her body, she couldn’t find a single spot that didn’t hurt. She lay on her back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. It was yellow, weak and pale, like her. She let the tears slip from her eyes; just a few moments of self-pity while she regained her mobility. What else was there to do?
Her throat clenched painfully, and her nose started to run. She regretted letting herself cry, because the tears were now a torrent and she couldn’t find a way to stem them. She sat up slowly on the bed – felt the stiffness in her legs and her back and stretched them as she wept. She needed to get to the bathroom before Peter came back. She couldn’t let him see her weeping. He might think that they broke her. And they had not. She wasn’t afraid, so she couldn’t really understand why she was crying.
“Stupid brain,” she sniffled as she took a few tentative steps. It hurt to stand, hurt to walk, even hurt to breathe. But she shuffled forward slowly, inched her way across the room. There was no door on the bathroom. She exhaled in frustration. Why? She looked around her – from the bathroom, to the sparse furniture to the boarded-up window and to the door, which was bolted from the outside. This room was a prison, meant to lock people in. No door on the bathroom, no place to hide, she shuddered in despair. She quickly used the toilet, didn’t want Peter walking in on her mid-stream. But despite how badly she wanted to wash the stench of Lukov off her, she was not going to shower. She couldn’t let herself be that vulnerable.
Finally, she found the courage to look into the mirror. She gripped the sink basin tightly with her fingers as she examined the frail woman staring back at her. Her eyes were still leaking, red and swollen from crying. She had a livid bruise on the side of her face where Lukov backhanded her at the cabin, and fingerprint bruises on the other cheek from his slap in the car. Her lips were swollen, her bottom lip split, and blood had seeped onto the collar of Finn’s shirt. She almost started to cry again as she remembered the morning, as she dressed, buttoning Finn’s shirt and sliding on leggings. He teased her about her obsession with his shirt. She told him she might never take it off except for when he wanted her to.
“Where are you, Finn?” She brought her fingers up to her bruised lips, the same that were locked into a passionate kiss just hours before. She missed him voraciously, wondered how her life had any meaning before him. She didn’t care what he said about love. She knew she loved him, knew she couldn’t live without him, wouldn’t live without him. She turned on the water tap and waited until it ran hot, then filled the sink up. She dabbed at her lip gently with a soft wet cloth, dipping it back into the water, then back to her lips, her eyes, her face, her neck. As she dabbed at the blood on Finn’s shirt, her anger shook her. How dare that stupid Russian pig soil Finn’s shirt?
The bolt slid back on the door and she stepped out of the bathroom, watching warily. It was Peter and he had a little tray with a jug of water, a cup and a sandwich. He kicked the door closed behind him and glanced over at her. “There’s a guard outside the door, if you are thinking of running.”
Nika scowled at him. “I can barely walk, you fool.”
Peter set the tray on the little table beside the bed. As he straightened up, he said, “You throw your words around too recklessly, Nika Petrova. You’re lucky I am a patient man. But Rusya Savisin is not. He’s asked me to bring you to him in one-half hour, so drink some water and eat your sandwich and be ready when I come back.”
After he bolted the door behind him, Nika sat down on the bed and pulled the table closer to her. She had to grip the water jug with both hands to manage the weight of it. Even then, her hands shook as she poured. She was not ready yet, she wished could sleep first. She drank the first glass of water, gulping it down. It was a golden elixir. She poured herself a second glass and sipped it more slowly. The sandwich was simple – just peanut butter between whole wheat bread slices, but she ate it without hesitation putting her mind in neutral otherwise she thought sh
e might vomit.
When she finished, she returned to the bathroom and washed her face again, and her hands. The water and food fortified her. She felt stronger and braver. She was ready for Rusya, she wondered whether he was ready for her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Rusya Yur’yevich Savisin leaned against the front of the desk in his study, his hands tucked into the pockets of his well-tailored pants. An unknowing observer might think him casual and arrogant, but anyone who worked for him knew otherwise. Even with the drapes drawn and the room cast in shadows by soft light from two exquisite Tiffany lamps, the savage in him glowed brightly in his dark eyes. He was a man with a reputation among his peers. Most who knew him were afraid of him. And those that weren’t afraid were either dead or fools. His beast was barely leashed and easily let loose.
He had no patience, no empathy and no regret. His soul was as dark as his closely trimmed hair. His coal black eyes never revealed his inner thoughts – he rarely smiled, his face impassive, keeping his secrets and masking his ever-simmering fury. He was born into the Russian mafia and never stepped outside it. He ruled the Vancouver Russian Mafia with an iron fist. His had no friends, had no ties to anyone or anything but his organization. His men were loyal to him or they were dead. His enemies, the ones he could touch, never knew the light of day again. He might lock them up until they gave everything they had, or he might bury them without hesitation. It depended on who it was and what Rusya wanted.
And with his newest acquisition he was one step closer to the man he wanted most. Jackman. They were enemies from the day they met, as children. And their mutual hatred for each other only grew over the years. They both wanted the same thing – to rule Russia and to rule each other. It was too late for a truce, they’d both done unforgivable things that fueled their enmity. There were no bridges left – they blew them all up.
His eyes followed Peter as he entered the room, holding the girl by her upper arm, pulling her along behind him. Peter gave him a solemn nod of respect before pushing Jackman’s Disappearist into one of the large, calve-skinned armchairs that littered his study. She was small, and the oversized chair almost swallowed her up. Rusya celebrated inside his head – he had the prize; no, he had Jackman’s prize. And even if she never talked, never uttered a single word, as long as Rusya held her, Jackman would lose. If this was a pissing contest, Rusya thought, Jackman would be wetting his pants right now. He relished that thought as he considered the girl.
Not a woman who would cause him to look twice. He liked tall women with long legs and round curves. A woman he could look in the eyes while he fucked her. “She’s bruised.” Rusya’s hard gaze flicked from Nika to Peter.
“She bit Lukov,” Peter explained simply.
And Rusya allowed himself a slight smile. “More than once?” He was looking at Nika again, studying her, trying to see beyond the bruises.
“Yes. Several times. He’s gone home now, to fix himself up and drink, I’m guessing.”
“Or to fuck his wife,” Rusya said casually. “You can go, Peter. Go home if you like. I won’t need you tonight.”
“Thank you.” Peter once again nodded in deference before closing the door softly behind him.
Rusya pulled a square leather ottoman up to Nika’s chair and then sat down on it, facing her directly. He saw her shiver, but she wasn’t quaking or crying or pleading. Not yet. What did she see when she looked at him? Did she see his simmering anger, his cruel, black soul? He reached out with his hand and she flinched as he took her chin. He moved her head from side to side, examining her. Her eyes were an odd colour, he mused. They would be wolf like in the right lighting. His eyes flicked down to her chest and he hooked his finger between the top button and drew the shirt out, looking down to her breasts. They were small but beautifully full and firm. “Whose shirt are you wearing?”
Nika sat silent, studying him back, her gold-flecked eyes more angry than scared. Rusya sucked in a breath as a jolt of lust hit him. She was beautiful and for a moment he forgot that she didn’t answer him.
But as she shifted back on the chair drawing her shirt away from his finger, he said, “Nika Petrova, I am Rusya Yur'yevich. You will answer me when I ask you a question.”
He saw the flicker of fear in her eyes, just a trace of panic before she shuttered her eyes. She was good at this game, but not as good as he.
He pushed a little harder, “You are small and weak. I can easily break you. I can take you and use you however I wish. I can give you to my men to use however they wish. Lukov would especially like that. The only woman he treats well is his wife. And that’s relative.”
Nika inhaled sharply. Rusya felt satisfaction. Lukov did his job well – he terrorized her, treated her with indifference. And now he was her enemy. Which meant Rusya could be her protector.
So he said, “But I won’t because you will tell me what I want to know.” He stood up and walked over to a bar, poured himself a shot of Russian Standard Gold Vodka, and tossed it back. “Would you like a drink, Nika?” he asked as he poured himself another shot.
Nika didn’t answer. She was trying his patience, what little he still had. With his glass in hand, he stalked slowly back to her, a lion with prey in his sights, and sat down in front of her again. He put the glass on the table next to her and then took both her hands in his. He stared into her eyes, he knew the black of his eyes would bore right through her. And he started squeezing her hands, increasing the pressure until he thought he might break bones, until she gasped. “Do you want a drink, Nika?” he repeated.
She shook her head.
“I didn’t hear you, Nika Petrova.”
Nika inhaled, tears pooling in her eyes. “No,” she whispered.
He slightly eased the pressure on her hands. “Are you afraid, Nika?”
He watched her as she searched his face for compassion. She was a little mouse, it would take nothing to consume her. She didn’t want to admit her fear, but she didn’t have to, her eyes betrayed her. Finally, she said, without inflection, “Yes, I’m afraid. I’d be a fool not to be.”
“You won’t get hurt if you talk to me and tell me what you know.”
“I’ve already been hurt,” Nika retorted, gathering her courage.
“Ah yes, Lukov.” Rusya frowned. “He doesn’t know how to be gentle. It’s a good trait and a bad trait. I understand his shortcomings and work with his strengths. He’s particularly good at bringing me the people I wish to talk to and then also making them talk.” He ran a hand down Nika’s cheek. “You’ll heal,” he added bluntly.
“What do you want to know, Rusya Yur'yevich?” Nika stared at him boldly as she shifted in her chair. Rusya almost laughed out loud at her attempt to be brave, to face him down. She was a fighter, for sure, but that would only cause her more pain in the long run. She was supposed to be a genius, but right now she was not being very smart. He thought he should test her just a little bit tonight, test his own restraint. He picked up the fine crystal tumbler and took a mouthful of his vodka, savouring it as he swallowed it down.
“Tell me about your job, Nika. Who do you work for, what do you do?”
Nika sucked in her breath. “I think you already know the answers to that.”
“Humour me, Nika.”
“No.” Nika’s eyes flashed darkly at him. “I won’t play games with you. I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t know who I work for and what I do. So, ask me a question, I will either answer it or tell you that I cannot.” But her courage faltered, and the last sentence faded to a whisper.
Rusya narrowed his eyes at her. He had failed his test of restraint as his rage roared in his chest. He wanted to backhand her, wipe the little arrogant frown off her face. Beat her until she was weeping at his feet begging him to let her talk. He stood abruptly, taking his glass with him, splashing more vodka into it. He didn’t know what was holding him back from pummeling her. Not her beauty – that was irrelevant. He could easily fuck her but had no interest in keepin
g her. She was nothing to him – it was her information that he wanted. He had no patience to charm her – he didn’t do that well. He threw back the shot of vodka, knowing the truth about him. He was furious with her and if he hit her, he might not be able to stop in time. She might not leave this room alive.
Maybe he should hand her back to Lukov. Lukov had no more restraint than Savisin, but he had far more patience. He knew how to administer a painful beating that would last as long as it needed to. No one ever withstood Lukov’s methods of information extraction. Lukov wouldn’t be swayed by her size or her beauty. In fact, it would serve to make him crueller. He didn’t like beautiful women – to him, they were vain and self-important. He liked to strip them of everything they valued. Their dignity, their looks, their naiveté. Once Lukov was through with a woman, she wasn’t just hurt, she was destroyed. He was a sadist and a killer and a good loyal man to have.
Savisin considered Nika over the rim of his glass as he thought about Lukov. He watched her shift uncomfortably in her chair. The silence was bothering her, and she started to say something.
“Shut your fucking mouth!” he shouted at her, keeping his distance, not trusting himself to get within arms reach of her. “I gave you the opportunity to talk and fool that you are, you weren’t wise enough to accept.”
He watched her flinch and that gave him a little satisfaction. “If you know anything of me, you know there are no second chances. Tomorrow, you will talk, and I’ll not be asking politely.”
After his men removed her, Savisin poured himself another drink, swallowing it down. Nika was small and soft. She would break too easily under Lukov’s brutality. He thought he might want to send Jackman’s little Disappearist back to him alive but destroyed. It wasn’t about Nika, he thought grimly as he walked to his desk and picked up his cell phone. She was just a pawn.