Chenkov smiled like a child on Christmas morning, all his sophisticated veneer dropping to reveal pure, sadistic glee.
"The infamous Beast," he said, accent wrapping around Dmitry's nickname like a caress. "Come to save his pet. How unexpectedly romantic."
"The money's all here," Dmitry said, voice flat and businesslike. "The original USB as requested. Now let her go."
Chenkov laughed, the sound echoing off concrete walls. "Let her go? Oh, Mr. Volkov, surely you're not that naive. Search him. Thoroughly."
Four guards converged on Dmitry, hands running over his body with professional thoroughness. They found his phone, his wallet, car keys. They checked the obvious places—ankle holster, waistband, inside pockets. They even made him remove his boots, checking for hidden blades.
They found nothing.
"Kneel," Chenkov commanded, pointing to a spot maybe ten feet from my chair. "Hands behind your head."
Dmitry complied with that same controlled calm, sinking to his knees on the stained concrete. This close, I could see the muscle jumping in his jaw, the only tell that he was fighting every instinct to act. Our eyes met again, and I tried to communicate without words that I was okay, that he didn't need to do this, that I wasn't worth whatever he was planning.
But he wouldn't hold my gaze. Instead, his eyes moved past me, over me, around me—counting guards, memorizingpositions, calculating angles and distances. Even kneeling with his hands behind his head, he was planning violence. The thought should have been terrifying. Instead, it was the only thing keeping me from falling apart.
Chenkov opened the briefcase, running his fingers through stacks of bills with the pleasure of a man who enjoyed money not for what it could buy but for what it represented—power, control, victory. He pulled out the USB, examining it like a jeweler with a precious stone.
"The original," he mused. "How can I be sure?"
"Check the serial number," Dmitry said. "Check the scratches on the casing. It's the same one Eva took from you."
My name in his mouth made something twist in my chest. Even now, even here, he said it like it mattered. Like I mattered.
Chenkov seemed satisfied with his examination. He pocketed the USB and closed the briefcase, then moved to stand behind my chair. I couldn't see him, but I could feel his presence like a cold shadow. Then the gun barrel touched my hair, running through it with obscene gentleness.
"She really is unique," he said conversationally, like we were discussing art instead of planning murder. "These eyes—one blue, one green. Do you know how rare true heterochromia is? Less than one percent of the population. My collector in Prague will pay handsomely for them."
The gun traced down to my neck, cold metal against skin that wanted to crawl away from the touch. I kept my eyes on Dmitry, watched his hands flex once—a tiny movement, barely visible, but I knew what it meant. He was imagining those hands around Chenkov's throat. Calculating how many seconds it would take to cross the space between us. Fighting every instinct because the timing wasn't right, the angles weren't perfect, the guards were still too alert.
"I'm thinking I'll keep her alive for quite a while," Chenkov continued, the gun now resting against my temple with casual pressure. "Start with the small things. Fingernails. Toes. Things that hurt exquisitely but don't kill. I'll make you watch, of course. Every cut, every scream. I want you to understand the cost of crossing the Morozovs."
My body wanted to shake, but I forced myself to stay still. Any movement might make Chenkov pull the trigger early, before Dmitry was ready for whatever impossible plan he'd formed. So I sat there, jaw throbbing, wrists raw, a gun to my head, and trusted that the man kneeling ten feet away would find a way to turn this warehouse into a slaughterhouse.
Because that's what love looked like in our world—not roses and promises, but walking alone into certain death and somehow finding a way to make death uncertain.
Chenkov circled back around my chair like a shark that had scented blood, each pass bringing him closer, each pause lasting longer. His cologne—something expensive that probably had a French name I couldn't pronounce—mixed with the warehouse's industrial decay to create a scent that would forever mean fear to me.
"Bring him closer," he commanded his men, gesturing at Dmitry with the gun. "I want him to see this properly. To appreciate the artistry."
Two guards hauled Dmitry forward on his knees, the concrete scraping audibly against his jeans. They positioned him maybe five feet away now, close enough that I could see the individual drops of sweat on his forehead, the way his chest rose and fell with controlled breathing. His hands were zip-tied behind him now—when had that happened? I'd missed it in my focus on the gun at my temple.
Chenkov pulled out a knife that looked medical in its precision. Not a fighting blade but something designed fordelicate work. The overhead lights caught the edge, throwing a line of white across my vision that made me blink.
The knife touched my cheekbone with the lightness of a breath, then pressed just enough to part skin. The pain was sharp but small, nothing compared to the violations I'd survived on the streets. I felt blood run down my face in a thin line, warm against skin gone cold with fear, but I didn't flinch. Didn't cry out. Just kept my eyes on Dmitry, watching him watch Chenkov hurt me.
His face remained expressionless, but I knew him well enough now to read the micro-tells. The muscle jumping in his jaw. The way his breathing had shifted from controlled to deliberately controlled. The slight flex of his shoulders that meant he was testing his restraints, calculating angles, preparing for something.
"Nothing to say, Mr. Volkov?" Chenkov asked, disappointment coloring his tone. "I expected more reaction. Perhaps we need to make this more interesting."
The knife moved to trace my jaw, not cutting this time, just threatening. The metal was cold against my skin, a promise of worse to come. But I wasn't watching the knife anymore. I was watching Dmitry's feet.
He'd shifted position when the guards moved him, and now I could see him doing something with his boot. The movement was subtle—a flex of his ankle, a slight rotation that might have been shifting for comfort. But I recognized the purposeful nature of it, the way he was working something loose without drawing attention.
The guards had relaxed slightly, thinking the threat was contained. Their boss had both prisoners under control, the money in hand, the USB recovered. They'd won. Why stay at maximum alert when the Beast was muzzled and chained?
That overconfidence was about to cost them everything.
