Asher

by Shandi Boyes

  “Her room or mine?” It’s the same fucking room, but for some reason, Lenin’s reply is detrimental to my sanity. I’m dealing with more emotions than I’ve ever had, and just the thought of Zariah not in my room waiting for me adds to the madness.

  My grip on the steering wheel tightens when Lenin replies, “Hers. She’s asleep.”

  “Have Bahrain send the feed from her room to the video feed in this car. I’m only twenty minutes out, but I can’t wait that long to see her.”

  Knowing Lenin will follow my instructions to the T, I disconnect our call.

  Images of Zariah huddled in a ball in the middle of her bed play through the console of my car a few minutes later. I can barely see her since she hasn’t lit a candle, but the rise and fall of her chest is enough to settle some of the agitation sitting heavily on mine.

  Not a lot, but it’s better than none.

  Fifteen minutes later, I climb the stairs of my compound. Lenin is waiting for me at the door. “Has she moved?”

  He shakes his head. “That may be more from fear than choice.”

  I freeze, my brow arching up in silent demand.

  “I told her she wouldn’t get far if she ran.”

  My jaw tightens so fast, it cracks.

  “Not to scare her into staying, but because the fuckers out there are more dangerous to her than any here.” He points to the door I just walked through.

  Although I agree with him, I can’t help but retaliate. “But she doesn’t know that, does she?!”

  Guilt lines his features before he once again shakes his head.

  “So you made her feel imprisoned after she just found out she was sold.” I breathe out deeply, fighting with all my might not to punish him as I did Kostya. I would if I didn’t understand why he did what he did. Zariah is safer here, but he should have explained that without threatening her.

  I let go of my anger for a more appropriate time. “Any news on Stepanov?” I sent my men out to find Zariah’s father the instant Matvei handed me her sale documentation.

  “Not yet. He’s gone off the grid.”

  Recalling Zariah’s uncle saying the same thing, I suggest for Lenin to reach out to Bear. He might have a better idea of his brother’s hidey holes than my men.

  “As soon as he is found, come and get me.”

  I wait for Lenin to nod before entering my room. There’s no use delaying the inevitable. Sometimes the best battles are the ones you enter midway through.

  I move to Zariah’s bedside with the same agile steps I used the prior month. Even with the flooring in her room being old, she’ll never hear a creak. She’s in the same position she was in the surveillance image but on her left hip instead of her right. She has been crying. Her face is wet with tears, and her nostrils are red. With her dress sitting in shreds on the floor, she’s reverted back to wearing a dowdy t-shirt as a nightie.

  My attempt to scoot closer to her unannounced is foiled by foil. The strip of condoms I dumped on the ground earlier tonight crunch under my boot and cause a whimper from Zariah.

  When I free the condoms from under my boot, my eyes lock in on a photo to their right. Although there’s a large blob of blood dripped down one side, I can confidently declare it is a picture of Zariah at my sixteenth birthday. I’d never forget the pale blue dress with white flowers she wore that day. It was freezing, but she wasn’t going to let anything stop her from dressing up. My birthday was the first celebration she had after her mother’s funeral, so it was the perfect excuse for her to let go of her grief for a night.

  It was also the last time I saw her in over a decade.

  As my pulse flutters in my neck, I scoop down to gather the photo in my hand. A cascade of emotions stirs in my gut when a droplet of blood in the top left-hand corner rolls down the photo. Its trek covers most of Zariah’s long black hair with a fiery red coloring and spurs more than just a bit of recklessness from me. With hair as molten as a blood moon, Zariah no longer looks like Zariah. She’s a spitting image of a young Dominique. I’m so convinced, I flip the photo over, seeking the handwritten inscription my mom writes on the back of every photo.

  I exhale a ragged breath when I read the pencil inscription on the back.

  Zariah Volkov.

  Asher’s Sixteenth Birthday.

  April 27.

  * * *

  The year is too smudged to read. I don’t need it. I know what year I was born, so it’s an easy calculation. Just as easy as it is for me to brush off Dominique’s similarities to Zariah. I didn’t grow immediately smitten with her for no reason. I thought all my Christmases had come at once when I found someone as unique and as stunning as Zariah. With a change in hair-coloring and length, Dominique could have passed as Zariah’s twin.

  My inner monologue trails off when reality dawns. I’ve been seeking answers in the wrong places. The truth has been in front of me the entire time.

  With vengeance-thick testosterone overpowering the adrenaline in my blood, I stand and race out of Zariah’s room. My frantic stomps will most likely wake her, but I can’t be silenced. I have urgent matters to attend to.

  As I break into a sprint, I dig my phone out of my pocket to dial a number known by heart. It’s midmorning in Vegas, so Nikolai answers my call promptly.

  He breaks into his usual greeting about me being a limp-dicked bastard, but I cut him off. “Who ordered Dominique?”

  I can’t see him, but I can imagine his brows pulling together when silence stifles his chuckle. “Before you, she was Vladimir’s.”

  “I didn’t ask who she belonged to; I asked who ordered her? Vladimir took her because he wanted her,” –much like me— “but we were paid to collect her. She wasn’t a random collection. That means someone ordered her specifically.”

  Unaware of the urgency of my question, Nikolai makes an eh noise. He can’t understand the importance of my query because he’s still putting the pieces together, like I was up until two minutes ago.

  “I need a name, Nikolai. Now.” You can’t miss the insistence in my tone. Not only will this reveal the person who killed Dominique, it will answer why protecting Zariah entered my mind long before desire for vengeance.

  “Alright. Hold on.”

  I hear the coo of a baby before Nikolai advises Justine he’ll be back. His feet padding on the floor and his panting breath reveal he’s running. I’d rib him on how unfit he has become, but the hate blackening my blood leaves no room for playfulness. I’m seconds from going on a rampage, and Nikolai is about to disclose who I’m trampling.

  A keyboard being tapped sounds down the line before, “What date was she picked up?”

  Even though I should be shocked the Popovs keep a paper trail of every transaction they make, I’m not. They have one of the best security programs in the world. It was created by the world’s greatest hacker, so it’s not just unhackable; as far as the FBI is concerned, it doesn’t exist.

  “March fourteenth three years ago. She was on a flight from France.”

  Up until six weeks ago, I would have been able to recite the exact time we snatched Dominique and her flight number, but now my mind is blank on anything but Zariah. Nothing I can do will bring Dominique back, but I can stop Zariah falling victim to the same fate.

  “She was for a Russian counterpart. Hence my assistance.”

  I can’t believe I hadn’t considered this earlier. I flew to Vegas specifically for Dominique, yet I didn’t consider her original procurer may have still wanted her when Nikolai gifted her to me. Add that to the fact Dominique could be passed off as Zariah’s twin, and there’s more than suspicion running through my veins. You’ve got a whole fucking conspiracy.

  I step back, stunned when Nikolai murmurs, “Volkov.”

  “Volkov? Are you sure?” He must be mistaken. That’s Zariah’s surname. “Do you have a first name?”

  “Only an initial.”

  “What is it?” I ask at the same time Nikolai mutters, “V.”

  �
��V?” I pause, sounding out the single letter as if it is an entire sentence. “V, as in Vaughn Volkov? Zariah’s brother?”

  Nikolai doesn’t seem convinced. It’s a pity for Vaughn I’ve already made up my mind.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Zariah

  “Zariah, wake up.” Someone nudges me, waking me from my nightmare. “You need to hurry, please.”

  When my eyelids flutter open, I realize I’m not dreaming. I am still in my nightmare. It’s just real life instead of being made up. My dress sits in tatters on the floor where I left it— right next to the box of photos that began my demise—and the thrum of multiple orgasms is still heating my veins. I thought losing my virginity would be a dream, whereas all it ended up being was a nightmare.

  The past twenty-four hours almost seems unreal, as if I made up the entire thing. If it weren’t for the ache in the middle of my chest and between my legs, I may have believed that. Asher has always been a little hotheaded, but he showcased it in an entirely different light last night. His dominance had me captivated in under a minute... but learning our exchange was nothing more than a business transaction shuts down any possibility of seeing it as a good thing.

  He bought me. Sorry, let me correct that. He bought my virginity.

  If it didn’t hurt so much, I’d laugh at his stupidity. He didn’t have to pay for something I would have given him willingly. Would have being the crucial part of my statement.

  When I’m nudged again, I rise to a half-seated position. The champagne I guzzled down in quick succession is messing with my head, and I’m not going to mention the number of tears I shed. Even with me sleeping a majority of the day, my head is throbbing so much, I feel seconds from vomiting.

  “Lenin?” I’m not convinced it’s him. He’s been avoiding me like the plague since last night, and it’s too dark in my room to see two inches in front of me. “What is it? Is it Asher?”

  My teeth grit after my last question. Why do I care if anything is wrong with Asher? He got what he paid for, so he’s done with me. Isn’t he?

  The shred of hope I’m stupidly clutching is thrown aside when Lenin grumbles, “Asher is fine, but your brother won’t be if you don’t hurry.”

  “Vaughn?” Shock sends me into autopilot mode. I leap out of my bed to thrust my feet into the pants Lenin is holding out for me, not the slightest bit worried I’m flashing him my lady bits. “He’s here? Where is he?”

  I ask a thousand more questions as I shadow Lenin out of my room. His pace is brutal, a speed I’d never be able to keep up with if it weren’t for the adrenaline roaring through my body.

  Bile burns my throat when we merge into the dark, unlit corridor we walked down only six weeks ago. Women aren’t usually allowed down here. The only time they’re granted access to this part of the compound is when they are being brought before their executioner.

  Jesus—I must really suck at sex. If I had known a bad performance between the sheets would result in a death sentence, I would have tried harder.

  Like I had any more to give.

  Asher was under my skin long before I knew the meaning of the word ‘obsession,’ so you can be assured I held nothing back last night. I gave him everything I had. Heart, body, and soul.

  I shudder when a grunt bellows through the door Lenin is standing next to. It isn’t a moan. It’s edged with pain.

  I discover the reason for the groan when Lenin swings open the door. Although the man standing in the middle of the room has his back to me, I know it is Asher. Even if I didn’t know the exact rhythm of his rising and falling torso, the sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up, exposing the tattoo on his right arm. They’re also sprinkled with blood.

  My pulse spikes when my brain demands I take in the entire picture. The room is similar to the one Asher held me captive in last month. It has the same pungent smell of death, it’s just fresher—newer.

  That might have something to do with the blood splattered around Asher’s feet. His knuckles are bloodied and bruised, but the pool of blood is too large to be from him, which can only mean one thing: he’s not the one being hurt. He’s delivering the punishment.

  I find out who when I raise my eyes. A man is suspended from the ceiling by a thick steel chain. The deep welts in his wrists show he’s been hanging for some time, let alone the vibrant red blood oozing down his arm. Half of it is dry and sticky, whereas the other half looks recent.

  With my heart in my throat, I take a step to my left. My worst nightmare comes true when the green eyes of my baby brother reflect back at me. I can barely see them with how badly his face is battered, but I’d never mistake his eyes. They’re the ones I stayed strong for, the ones I’d go to the ends of earth to protect.

  The air in my lungs evacuates my body as brutally as Vaughn’s does when Asher’s fist connects with his left rib. I hear a crack, closely followed by another. He just broke my brother’s rib and my heart with one punch.

  Not thinking, I push off my feet with a grunt. My first thoughts are to tackle Asher, but I know a woman of my size would never be able to take him down. Instead, I move toward Vaughn to protect him with my body. His can’t take much more punishment. He is battered and bruised, seconds from collapsing.

  He’s so out of it, he doesn’t even notice me clinging to the front of him until my screams for Asher to stop shred through his ears. I prepare my body for impact when I hear a whoosh.

  It never comes.

  Asher stops his fists in just enough time. The left right left combination he planned to stun Vaughn with collides with the wall behind me instead of my head.

  The spit in his exhausted breaths hits my neck when he roars, “What is she doing here?! Get her out of here!”

  His words aren’t for me. They’re for a group of men sitting at his right. They are also like nothing I’ve ever heard before. They were delivered straight from hell.

  “No!” I fight against Matvei with all my might when he attempts to peel me off Vaughn. My clutch on my brother’s back is vicious, but when you’re clutching at straws, you have to give it all you’ve got. If I leave him now, he will die. That isn’t a probability. It is a fact. Asher is seconds from killing him. “He didn’t do anything wrong. He isn’t like us. He’s an innocent.”

  When Matvei successful pries my nails out of Vaughn’s back, I stab my elbow into his ribs before falling to Asher’s feet. I’m not above begging. Nothing is below me when it comes to protecting those I love. “Please don’t do this. I’ll do anything you want—anything at all.” I hiccup through the sobs tearing from my throat. “Please, Asher. I’m begging you not to do this.”

  Although he stops Matvei from retaliating to my violence, the eyes staring down at me are not the same pair I stared at in awe last night. They’re black and lifeless—they belong to a monster.

  As does his roar. “Take her—now!”

  Realizing not even I have the ability to calm Asher when he’s set for vengeance, Lenin enters the room at the speed of a bullet. He propels me to my feet by yanking on my arm. His hold is as callous as the one I used on Vaughn, but it isn’t in anger.

  My fight is.

  I kick and wail with all my might. My struggle to wrench myself from Lenin’s grip is brutal enough for my feet to collide with Asher’s back numerous times. “I hate you! I fucking hate you! I wish you would have let me die!”

  My words have more impact on Asher than my violence. He pivots around in an instant; his grip on my face when he pins me to the door Lenin was attempting to drag me through is more lethal than them all combined. “What did I tell you about saying shit like that to me?! I told you not to say it!”

  I’m reasonably sure the entire compound hears me when I yell, “You also said you’d never hurt me! This is hurting me, Asher. By hurting Vaughn, you’re hurting me!”

  “He hurt the woman I love!”

  His growl scares the living shit out of me, but not as much as the fear clutching my throat. Vaughn’s head i
s hanging at an odd angle, and his eyes are shut, making me panicked I’ve intervened too late.

  Realizing I have nothing left to lose, I throw all my cards on the table. “No, he didn’t. Vaughn would never hurt Dominique. He loved her.” Asher’s grip on my face firms, but it isn’t the reason for the moisture streaming down my cheeks. It’s breaking a promise I swore I’d never break. “Dominique never visited me, Asher. Not once. She was there for Vaughn. She loved Vaughn.”

  I keep my eyes locked with Asher’s, ensuring he can see the honesty in them. He can feel it blistering out of me, but he still tries to deny it. He just doesn’t use words.

  I’m not taking a page out of his book. I kept quiet for years, and look where it got me. “Check his pocket. He carries a love letter from her everywhere he goes. He’s never without it. Vaughn isn’t your enemy, Asher. He’s a good man who fell in love with the wrong woman.”

  Lenin urges Asher to calm down when he gets right up in my face to scream, “You’re lying! You’re lying to save him and to save yourself!”

  “From what, Asher? From being forced to repay whatever stupid amount you paid for my virginity? From living in a room that’s worse than a prison cell? What am I saving myself from? I have no reason to lie. Not one.”

  The throb in his neck is audible in his voice when he shouts, “From me! You’re trying to save yourself from me!”

  Now some of my tears are for him. I knew him before all of this. Before the violence. Before the drugs. I knew him before he would have ever considered death as the payback for betrayal. His reply shows that he isn’t punishing Vaughn because he believes he killed Dominique. He’s punishing him because he betrayed him—we betrayed him.

  My words crackle when I speak, “If it weren’t for you, Dominique would have never felt free to trust her feelings. You gave her that, Asher. You gave her back her freedom.”

  “Freedom to treat me like a fool—with him!” He relinquishes my face from his grip so he can thrust his blood-stained hand to a near-lifeless Vaughn. “If I had done what I should have done years ago, none of this would be happening. Dominique would still be alive, and you wouldn’t be looking at me like I’m scum on the bottom of your shoe. I made a mistake once letting him off lightly. I won’t make the same mistake twice.”