Pain.
I stumble, my vision flashing white as I crash to my ass. But there’s no time to process because the moment my hand flies to my face, a single shot rings out.
The bullet hisses past me, so close I swear I feel the heat graze my ear, before it slams into the man on the floor. His body jerks once, then stills, that faint, mocking smile still frozen even in death. A moment later, I’m staring down the barrel of Pyotr’s .357.
He gnashes his teeth, breath sour with smoke and whiskey. “Your father would roll in his grave if he knew how much of a weak little pussy his only son has become.” My skin sears when the muzzle makes contact, but I don’t flinch. I take it. “I should put you out of your misery, let you join them in hell and be done.”
Another shockwave of metal smashes across my face, this time splitting skin. Tears blur my vision, and black spots swarmthe edges, but I stay upright. I spit blood at his boots, brace myself against the floorboards, and grind the words out through clenched teeth.
“Do it…Kill me.”
His laugh is cold, ugly, echoing off the walls as he slides the gun toward my mouth. “If that’s what you want—then open up.”
I hesitate, fear crawling up my throat. I’ve fantasized about dying, about closing my eyes and never waking up, but now, staring death in the face, I feel…scared.
“Not so brave now, eh?” Another dark chuckle, then his gaze hardens. He shoves the barrel past my teeth, the metal still hot enough to burn. “Close your eyes and count to three.”
I exhale sharply, masking the terror clawing through me, and do as he says. Tears scorch my throat as I begin to mumble the numbers around hot steel. But the word barely forms before he wrenches my head back by the hair, ripping the gun from my mouth so hard I taste blood.
“Stupid little bastard,” he sneers. “If I can’t make use of you, I’ll sell you off. Plenty would pay good money for that pretty face.”
“No!” My scream shatters out of me as I thrash in his grip, nails tearing against the concrete as he drags me across the cellar. “Kill me! Kill me—please!”
The handle of his gun crashes down against my face again. Bone splits, vision explodes white, but this time, I don’t fight the dark. I let it take me.
Sharp slaps hit the fresh cuts on my face, dragging me out of the dark. My eyes flutter open, and my lids are heavy as the world tilts in and out of focus.
Three days. It’s been three days of hell. Every inch of me aches. My skin is raw, my bones sore, and my spirit...broken.
Even the leather seat under me feels like barbed wire digging into my back.
The last time I blacked out, I prayed I wouldn’t wake up. But I did. And the nightmares waiting for me weren’t dreams anymore—they were real.
Pyotr kept his promise. He said he’d break me, and now he means to sell me.
Just another piece of flesh on the market.
He told me so himself, whispering it in my ear before holding me under water until my lungs caught fire. His favorite game.
“Time to wake up, dog.”
He’s in the passenger seat, silver tooth flashing every time we pass under a streetlight.
“Where…where are you taking me?” My throat feels like sandpaper.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just smirks at his own reflection in the side mirror, then shifts his cold gaze to mine in the rearview.
“Got a friend willing to take you off my hands,” he says. “Fly you across the Atlantic. Start your new life.”
A shudder rips through me, and I shake my head, frantic despite the pain and exhaustion weighing on me. “No. J-just let me go. Right here. You’ll never see me again. I promise.”
Pyotr’s smile deepens, lines creasing around his eyes like the cracks in stone. “Now, Maksim…if I did that, who would pay me for all the years of work I put into you? Work I didn’t have to do, but accepted out of the kindness of my heart.”
“No!” I lunge forward, but a massive hand slams me back against the seat. Oxygen leaves my lungs in a rush. Daniil’s grip is a vise.
“Sit,” he growls, crushing me into the leather. “Maybe he’s right. Not worth the trouble. We toss him off that bridge and be done.”
Pyotr exhales cigar smoke, the embers flaring. “Daniil, do I pay you to follow orders or make suggestions?”
