He’s handsome, but I guess he’s proof that not all monsters have jagged teeth and claws.
Veles tells his hired muscle something in Russian that I can only imagine makes the man feel the size of a flea given his sudden sulking expression.
“You make formula for us. Euphoria.” Veles states as if I will do anything he says. And yeah. He’s probably right. I’m the one tied up in what I assume is a basement. Arguing with the thugs isn’t the smartest way out of this situation.
“You cook or you die.”
My blood goes cold at the flatness in Veles’ tone.
“Um, I’m not a chef. I’m just a professor of?—”
He cuts me off with a gesture, pointing at Daniel’s body. “He cooked for us and then decided he didn’t like it anymore. He is dead now. You will not refuse.”
The hired muscle scatters photos across the floor. They’re all of me: walking to class, at a café, unlocking Daniel’s apartment door. My whole life for the last nineteen days, catalogued and used as evidence against me.
“You’re alone. No family here. No one will come looking,” Mr. Muscle points out, almost kindly. “You’re perfect.”
His buddy, Mr. Muscle 2.0 comes to kneel on my other side, gathering a lock of my hair between his fingers. “Or I can find other uses for you.” His accent is as thick as the others. He takes in my skirt, the crop top and my bare feet. This morning it was a super chick outfit. Now the front dips to reveal my ample breasts and the layers of my soft skirt have ridden up to reveal more than just a little thigh.
I look away, shame burning across my cheeks.
Veles steps forward and sets a folder on a nearby table. “You help us cook, you live. You refuse, you die.”
The logic is as brutal as it is simple.
He gestures to the file. “Come. Read.”
Mr. Muscle 2.0 reaches around me and cuts the rope binding me. My fingers are numb, but I manage to push myself to my knees and then stand. It’s not like I have a lot of options. I wouldhave to get past the three of them before I could make it out the door and who knows what is beyond that.
I sit at the table under the harsh lamp. They put a list in front of me made up of compounds, measurements all written in Daniel’s handwriting. I really wish I would have taken up some kind of self defense at some point.
I squint into the low light. “Sorry, I don't have my glasses.”
Veles snaps his fingers and Mr. Muscle produces my black frames.
I slip them on and read over the stack of papers again. “What is Euphoria?”
“A designer drug we need your help cooking.”
My mouth hinges open. “You want me to cook fucking drugs for you?”
Veles pulls a gun from under his suit jacket and holds it leisurely at his side. Like this is just another day at the office for him and the scary part… it probably freaking is.
My heart has slowed down in the last five seconds. It races to the point that little white dots fill my vision.
“Da, malyshka. This is a recipe for Euphoria and you are going to follow it or I will put bullet through your head. Deal?”
No. No! But not only no but also FUCK NO!
My hands shake, but I keep my voice steady. “I need proper equipment. Supplies. If you want the process done right. I see none of that so I can’t help you.”
Yeah, what a way to show them you are really tough.
Veles’s gaze is flat. “You do what you are told. Or you end up like your friend. Equipment we have.”
My eyes flick to Daniel again, and something inside me twists into a tight ball and dies.
Mr. Muscle 2.0 smirks, pushing my glasses up my nose, his touch lingering too long. “Don’t make us regret picking you, Professor.”
