I scramble backward, pressing myself against the wall, my heart pounding. Two men enter—guards, armed, their faces blank and professional. One carries a tray of food, the other watches me with his hand on his weapon.
They don't speak. Don't even look at me directly. The one with the tray sets it on the floor just within my reach, then they both withdraw, the door slamming shut behind them.
I stare at the food—bread, cheese, a bottle of water. Simple fare, nothing that could be used as a weapon. They've thought of everything.
I should eat. I know I should eat. For the baby, if nothing else.
But my stomach rebels at the thought. The nausea is stronger now, whether from the pregnancy or the fear, I can't tell. I force myself to take a few bites of bread, a few sips of water. It's not enough, but it's something.
The silence returns, heavier than before.
***
The second time the door opens, it's not the guards.
The man who enters is tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair silvered at the temples and cold eyes that assess me like I'm merchandise to be appraised. He moves with the casual confidence of someone who owns everything in his sight.
I know who he is before he speaks.
Sergei Morozov.
"Bianca Benedetti." He says my name slowly, tasting each syllable. "At last."
I don't respond. I won't give him the satisfaction.
He crosses the cell slowly, his footsteps echoing on the concrete, and stops just out of reach. Close enough to intimidate. Far enough to stay safe.
"You're prettier than I expected," he says. "Misha has good taste. I'll give him that."
I keep my face blank, my eyes fixed on the wall behind him.
"Not much of a talker? That's fine. I don't need you to talk." He crouches down to my level, studying my face. "I just need you to exist. To be here, in my hands, while Misha tears himself apart trying to find you."
"He'll kill you." My voice comes out rough, scratchy. "When he finds me, he'll kill you."
Sergei laughs—a warm sound, almost genuine. "Oh, I'm counting on him trying. That's the whole point." He tilts his head. "Do you know how long I've been planning this? How many weeks I've spent learning his weaknesses, mapping his defenses?"
"I don't care."
"No, I suppose you don't." He reaches out and touches my face—a gentle caress that makes my skin crawl. "But you should. Because everything that's about to happen—all the blood, all the death—it's all because of you."
I jerk away from his touch. "Don't touch me."
Something flickers in his eyes—annoyance, maybe, or amusement. "Spirit. Good. I was worried you'd be boring." He stands, brushing off his knees. "Misha is already looking for you, you know. Tearing through my operations, killing anyonewho might know where you are. He's quite impressive when he's motivated."
My heart leaps, but I keep my face still.He's coming. He's coming for me.
"It won't matter," Sergei continues. "He won't find you in time. And when he finally does—when he walks right into the trap I've laid for him—he'll die."
He turns and walks toward the door.
"Get some rest, Bianca. The next few hours are going to be eventful."
The door closes behind him, and I'm alone with the echo of his words.
***
I don't know how much time passes after Sergei leaves.
