by Nicole Fox
“What does it matter?” I whisper urgently. Urgent because the bidding is going on all around us. Soon, this will be over. “He means nothing to me.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Molly says. “Like I said, it’s your decision.”
I wince again, annoyed. Annoyed because she’s partly right, but annoyed, mostly, because I just want more time to figure this out. Andrei means nothing to me, seriously. I’ve only ever spoken to him once. But the thought of Declan, of all people, lording it over him, pretending he’s the big man just because he’s the one who bought him, pisses me off.
Yeah, that’s a good reason, right? I can tell myself that’s why I quietly walk over to where Dad is sitting and drop down next to him. The good thing about having a dad who just sees you as an ornament is that it means I can play on his emotions pretty easily.
I give him the puppy-dog eyes.
“What?” he growls, but there’s that indulgent look in his expression.
“Papa, I want you to buy this man.”
“Eh?” he grunts, turning a confused eye on me. “Why would I want this bastard?”
“I want him,” I explain. “For …” For what? To screw? To protect? To marry? Hell no, no, and no. Truth be told, I don’t have the faintest idea why I actually want Andrei, and now is not the time to open that gnarly can of worms. I’m running on pure instinct here, and the window of opportunity is closing fast.
“… He would be perfect for my latest photography project,” I finish.
“What do you mean?”
I blab about some things I know damn well my father couldn’t care less about: lines of composition, depth of character, the nuances of portraiture. I’m hardly three words into my first sentence before I can see the telltale glaze start to sneak over Papa’s eyes the way it always does whenever I talk about my photography. Once upon a time, it made me furious. Right now, though, it’s the key to getting what I want.
I ignore the way Declan is glaring at me out of the corner of his eye. He won’t dare say anything negative about me when Dad is around.
“Really?” Dad mutters, turning to the stage. “You want to photograph that?”
“It would be perfect, Daddy,” I whimper. It’s over-the-top and melodramatic, but only if you don’t expect anything more from a woman. Sadly, my father never has. I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m a virgin, that I haven’t even had my first period yet.
So, even though I hate how whiny my voice sounds right now, I can see Molly smiling out of the corner of my eye, and I know I’m on the right track. Dad lifts his hands. “All right, calm down, Jamie, let’s not make a scene.”
“He could be useful,” Rafferty puts in neutrally. “Let Jamie use him for her little project, and then we’ve got Andrei Bakhtin for whenever we need him.”
“Hmm,” Father says, considering. “So be it. Hold the auction!”
“Um, sir,” the auctioneer says. “It’s not common practice to hold the—”
“Be quiet!” Rafferty hisses, seeing how angry Dad’s about to get at this man speaking back to him. “Are you an idiot?”
The auctioneer bows his head. After giving the auctioneer a withering look, Dad turns to me. “This little artwork thing,” Dad says. “It wouldn’t make him look good, would it?”
Little. That’s the word they always like to use about my photography, as though it’s just some mindless, stupid endeavor. It pisses me off. But I don’t let that show.
“Of course not,” I say. The thing is, now that we’re discussing it, my mind is already whirring. The Beast could actually make quite a good photography exhibition. But I’d have to think of an angle … “I would never do that, Daddy. You know I’m your little girl.”
Cringe levels are off the charts. But it works. My dad’s pretty naïve when it comes to me, and he nods matter-of-factly when I say this. “Very well, sweetheart. And Rafferty, you’re right. We’ll be able to use him at some point, when her project’s done. Okay, the auction can continue!”
I see Rafferty whispering in his son’s ear, almost certainly telling him to do the smart thing and stop bidding on Andrei so that Dad can win. Dad puts his arm around me paternally and grins like he’s just a regular father treating his daughter in a regular way, as though he’s taking me to a jewelry store or something.
Andrei, I realize with a conflicted thrill running through my body, is staring right at us. His eyes bore into me, that subtle smirk playing at his lips. I really can’t believe how powerful and in charge he looks right now. What kind of man can be chained up on an auction stage and still look like we’re all eating out of his hand?
“Look at him, still brazen even now,” Dad laughs. “Staring me right in the eye. Can you believe that, Jamie? Disrespecting your old man like that! Maybe being a prop in your project will teach him a lesson.”
“Yeah,” I say hollowly, glad Dad thinks Andrei’s looking at him and not me. Because he’s really eyeing me now, holding my gaze even when Dad wins the auction and he’s dragged off stage. But it’s not even like he’s dragged. It’s more like he walks of his own accord, not even glancing at the armed guards.
I swallow, tasting nerves and champagne. The way he was looking at me just now is exactly the same way he was looking at me in my fantasies yesterday. I remember how I came last night, a ricocheting orgasm that was hot and wet and close, as though the walls of the room were pressing around me, trapping me. I had to bite my lip to stop from screaming.
When I return to Molly, she’s grinning.
“Don’t,” I tell her.
She flinches. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t say anything!”
She giggles, lifting the champagne glass. “I was merely going to ask if you want another drink.” I wait for the punchline which, of course, doesn’t take long. “I mean, hunk shopping must be thirsty work, right?”
But after we’re both done laughing, we exchange a dark look. Because this is still fucked.
And it just got a whole lot more complicated.
4
Andrei
I’m shaking with rage when the pair of armed Irishmen lead me down the hallway to my cell. Over these past few days, they’ve kept me chained up like an animal, but I made a promise to myself the second I woke up in the cold darkness.
These motherfuckers won’t ever break me.
Two promises, actually: Cormac and his men are going to pay for this, badly. They’ll pay for it with their lives.
So even if the rage is bubbling up inside like an inferno ready to consume me, even if my muscles are straining like they’re trying to burst from my skin, I keep a small smile on my face. I nod to the Irishman’s gun. “Is that the semiautomatic model? I hope you have a license for that thing.”
The guard laughs, before catching himself. “Don’t play games, Russian.”
“So touchy.” I tut, baiting him. “Just making conversation.” In Russian, I add, “I’ll take that gun and shove it down your throat, and when I pull the trigger, your fucking guts will blow out of your belly, Irish scum.”
“What did you say?” the man snarls.
“Just that it’s a wonderful day to be alive. Even as a prisoner, my friend, how can I complain when I have my health? And, look, a change of clothes. Lucky fucking me.”
I walk into my cell where the change of clothes waits for me. I can tell how much my apparent good mood is bothering my guards. They just don’t know what to make of it, which just makes me want to do it more. They’re living in a dreamland if they think I’ll let them see me uncomfortable or annoyed, even for a second … until the time is right, and then they’ll experience every biting lash of my anger.
“She wants you to take a shower, Russian,” the Irishman grunts, nodding at the rusty shower in the corner of the room before slamming the cell door.
She. Jamie. The woman who bought me, even if she made it seem like it was Cormac’s idea.
I look around the cell, at the wooden bed frame with the dingy matt
ress, at the grime creeping up the walls. It’s clear to me that Cormac had no intention of buying me himself tonight and using me as a political prisoner. No, for whatever reason, Jamie decided she wanted to buy me.
Why? To rescue me?
I laugh quietly at that. I don’t need rescuing. I’ll make my own way, the same way I have my entire life. And if I die during the attempt, then I’ll just have to accept it. That’s the way this life goes. All men—even the young ones—who enter the Bratva are prepared for that. So, as I walk over to the shower and begin tugging loudly at its rusty metal neck, I don’t feel scared.
I feel ready.
I keep tugging at it, the metal making a loud whining noise. Eventually, I hear the Irishman knocking at the door. “The fuck are you doing?” he growls.
“You told me to shower!” I call through, my voice faux-innocent.
“Yeah? And what?”
“How am I supposed to shower when the damn thing is broken?”
I make my tone that of a man with a genuine problem, with no ulterior motive. Being a Bratva boss doesn’t just mean being good at killing and gunfights and business. It means being cunning, too. A man without brains doesn’t survive long on the streets. Osip taught me well.
The door opens and the man peers in. “Have you turned the knob?”
I grab the knob and purposefully turn it the wrong way, hard, so that it makes a cranking noise. “I am turning it,” I tell him plainly.
The man takes a few steps into the room, narrowing his eyes. “For fuck’s sake, Russian. How hard can it—”
He’s not fool enough to walk right across the cell. He thinks he’s at a safe distance when I leap at him, mostly because people are always shocked by how fast I can move. They expect somebody of my size to be sluggish. I grab him by the shirtfront and tackle him across the room, slamming him against the door, which closes it with a loud slam. On the other side, the guard is shouting, calling for backup.
“Little worm,” I growl in Russian, slamming him again.
His head knocks into the metal door and his eyes fall shut. I let him drop to the floor and then, with one hand on the door to stop the other guard from pushing it open, I grab the cell phone from his pocket.
Quickly, I dial Timofey, but it goes straight to voice mail.
I dial his second number. Shit. Voice mail again.
Snarling out about a hundred curses, I call Egor instead. Thankfully, he answers after only a few rings.
“Yeah?”
“It’s me,” I say urgently, since I can already hear the guards gathering on the other side of the door. I’m far stronger than any of them individually, but sooner or later, their combined effort will overpower me. “Don’t talk. Just listen. I’ve been sold at a slave auction to Cormac O’Gallagher. I think they’re going to take me to a safe house, or maybe even their mansion. It was the daughter who pushed him to buy me, so wherever she lives, maybe they’ll take me there.”
“Fuck!” Egor curses. “This will not last. I am coming, my friend. These Irish will pay for what they’ve done to you.”
“Don’t give any consideration to my life,” I tell him coldly. “If you have a plan that’ll kill as many of these Irish bastards as possible, don’t even think about me, Egor. I trust you to do what’s right.”
“Open this fucking door!” a guard roars, and then there’s a heavy thud which reverberates through my forearm and into my shoulder. “I won’t ask again!”
“I can’t promise that, Andrei,” Egor says. “You know I can’t. How many times do I have to tell you? You are the Bratva. I’m getting you out of there—alive.”
“I have to go,” I warn, straining with every muscle I have to keep the door shut. I need both hands. “I think I’m about to get one hell of a beating, brother.” I laugh savagely. “Wish me luck.”
Egor doesn’t sound so amused though. “Stay strong. We’ll make them pay for this.”
I hang up and press my whole weight against the door. Clenching my teeth, spit flies from my mouth at the effort. I can hear at least five men on the other side, and I’m guessing all of them are pushing. In the end, I leap back and they all fall down. I grab the shower head and wrench it hard, tearing it from the wall and brandishing it as a weapon.
The guards disentangle themselves. One of them, a large man with a twice-broken nose and narrow eyes, smirks at me. He hefts his rifle. “Are we done with the games?” he asks.
I heft the shower head. “I suppose we’re about to find out.” I grin, enjoying the rush of adrenaline. I toss it from hand to hand. “Are you really going to shoot me? How would Cormac feel about that?”
“Your new owner?” the man sneers. “I’m sure if I explained how difficult you were being, he’d understand.”
I slam myself in the chest with the metal shower head. It’s painful, but the sound it makes, of metal on muscle, causes the men to wince. It’s loud and it makes me sound as if I’m carved from stone. “Do what you’re going to do, cowards,” I order in Russian. “You will never make me scared of you.”
“How many times we gotta tell this motherfucker we don’t speak that pig-shit language?” he barks, glancing around him. “Anyway, Bakhtin, you’re huffing and puffing for no good reason. See this.” He hefts his gun. “These here are rubber bullets.”
Ah fuck.
If this was a movie, maybe I’d be able to leap around the cell, dodging the rubber bullets. Maybe I’d be able to get close enough to them so that I could disarm them and steal the gun.
But this is real life, and in real life, there are no easy outs. They back out of the cell and begin firing the rubber bullets inside. Two slam into my belly, causing sharp pulsing points of pain. I cover my face and turn away, taking the punishment on my ribs and back.
But I don’t cry out, or let these bastards see even one moment of pain.
“Are we done?” I ask breezily when they’ve finally stopped firing.
“This guy’s nuts,” one of the younger guards mutters, before somebody shuts him up.
“We’ve got orders to take you to another cell,” the same senior guard from before growls. “Don’t make us tranquilize you, Russian. She wants you awake.”
She again.
There are no prizes for guessing who they’re talking about.
I don’t have much choice when they move me to another cell. Five guards enter, all with rifles, all aimed right at my face. I don’t let them shackle my hands, though, and I’m gratified to see that they’re too scared to try and force the issue. They seem glad when I walk into the new cell. This one is still grimy, but a little cleaner, with a shower that hasn’t been ripped from the wall.
Yet.
I sit down on the bed—or what passes for the bed—and run my hands over the bruises from the rubber bullets. They hurt, but the pain is nothing compared to what I’ve suffered through in my life. Physical pain means absolutely nothing to me. I’ve already experienced the worst this dark, shitty world has to offer.
I don’t think about my parents’ deaths too often. Memories of my father and mother come to me in fits and starts, which I close off before I feel any level of emotion, anything that might be risky. As I prod and explore the bruises, though, I remember the night they died. It was Christmas and I was just ten years old, still naïve. I got it into my head that it’d be magical for them to wake up to a snowman, so, an only child with nobody to help me, I went out into the snow before sunrise and began my work.
I hate to think about the goofy grin on my face as I piled up the snow, the pathetic warmth in my heart, the misguided notion that this would make their Christmas perfect. It was childish, weak, but what came next was even worse.
A freak electrical fire tore through our old house, owing no doubt to the fact the house had been passed down from generation to generation. Before my eyes, the house caught fire. I first noticed it when the snow started flickering orange.
And then, as the fire burned furiously through the house, I jus
t stood there, rooted to the spot, too scared to act. Even when they started screaming, all I could do was cry. Even when the flames melted my pathetic, half-finished snowman, I just stood there.
Until, eventually, I passed out from the fear. When I awoke, Osip was there, stealing me away before the police could arrive. Later, he told me that my parents were in the Bratva, that I was heir to the throne, and so I worked my ass off to honor my parents’ memory.
But no matter how hard I work, nothing can change the fact that I failed them.
I stand up, wincing at the bruises, reminding myself of what I always remind myself when I think of their deaths:
Never be weak.
Never let emotions rule you.
Harden yourself and do what is necessary.
Because if I’d done what was necessary that night—if I’d done something, anything—my parents would still be alive.
Sometime later, the door cracks open and Jamie walks in, looking crazily out of place in her glittery red dress and heels. The heels highlight how shapely her calves are. I find myself imagining biting down on them, softly at first, and then harder as I drag my teeth all the way up her pale flesh to her sex.
But I just smile. “How kind of you to visit me.”
“I’ve been told you’re living up to your name, Beast.”
I shrug in a what-can-you-do way. “I was so enamored with it, Jamie. I just couldn’t help myself.”
She flushes when I say her name. She has this cute habit of going red from the neck up. It stops at her face, though, shielded as it is with makeup. It’s a unique look, and it entices me. I enjoy making her flush. I enjoy the power I have over her, even if she wants to pretend she’s the one in charge.
“So I tell them to make you shower,” she says, fighting the urge to smile. “And you go nuts instead. You know they want to kill you for that, right?”
I shrug. “I never presume to know what another man wants.”
“Do you always have to be so slick?”
I stare at her for a long moment. “Is there something you want?” I ask after a long pause.