"We could get you one," Evan offers. "If you want. We have connections. Good connections. We could find you something perfect. Whatever type you prefer. Like filling out a form—just tell us everything you prefer in a woman, and we’ll find you a match, right down to personality. Some men want one already broken, others like to do the breaking themselves." He chuckles, and I feel a muscle tick in my jaw, that cold anger searing my veins. The woman next to me has gone very still.
He’s offering it so casually. Like I’m buying a designer dog or a car. It’s an effort not to tremble with the anger I’m feeling, to keep my voice casual when I respond. "I'll keep that in mind."
Iosef snaps his fingers. “What are you waiting for? Go get her, Evan.”
He nods quickly and gets up to obey. The conversation moves on, as if we were just discussing any other normal topic, but I'm barely listening anymore. My mind is working through logistics, possibilities, and wondering if I can help her. If I can only help her, or if I could help more of them. If it would be better to tell Ilya about this first and then come back, get them out, and raze this place to the ground. The blonde on my chair is trembling slightly—I can feel it through the fabric of my jacket, and it makes me want to gather her into my arms and promise her things I can’t possibly follow through on right now, though I doubt she’d appreciate either.
These women have been bought, kept prisoner, tortured for these men’s amusements. I've seen a lot of evil in my life. I've done things that would make most people sick. I work for a man who built his empire on violence and fear. I've killed men who probably deserved it and some who probably didn't. I've looked the other way when I needed to, and made compromises that keep me awake some nights.
But there are lines, even in this world. Lines that separate business from sadism, necessity from cruelty for its own sake. There are things that men like Ilya and I won’t do, no matter how much blood and devastation are on our hands.
These men have crossed those lines.
And they're bragging about it. Proud of it. Offering to share.
The rage grows until it feels like a living thing inside me; difficult to control, I've learned over the years how to use it, how to let it sharpen my focus instead of clouding it. Right now, it'stelling me that these men are worse than double-dealers. They're abominable. They deserve to die.
These are the kind of men who keep women in holes in their basements and think it makes them powerful. The kind of men Ilya would want eliminated.
But first, I need proof of their betrayal. That's why I'm here. That's the mission. I need to get that, and then I can tell Ilya the rest. Even if it means leaving these women here a little longer, I’ll need more than just myself to put an end to this operation. Alone, I’ll likely just get myself killed.
This woman—any of these women—is a complication I don't need.
Except I can't stop thinking about her. About what they've done to her. About what they're still doing to her, right now, while we sit here drinking their expensive vodka and smoking their expensive cigars and pretending to be civilized.
Less than thirty minutes later, Evan comes back into the room with a slight limp, his jaw clenched. Grigory is so drunk he barely notices, but Iosef sees him immediately, eyes narrowing when he sees that there’s no woman with him.
“Where is she?” he asks sharply.
“She kicked me in the goddamn balls,” Evan spits out. “So I told her to get on her knees and fucking kiss them better.”
Pyotr smirks. “Did she do it?”
“No.” Evan’s glare is furious. “So I gave her something to wear on her pretty little face and then threw her in the hole. She can stay there smelling my cum until she remembers her place.”
“You should have brought her up anyway,” Iosef drawls, and Evan winces.
“I got… kind of pissed off. Her face is in a state right now.”
Iosef’s eyes darken. “I told all of you, leave her face alone unless the surgeon is here. If we can’t call him in time to fix it—”He curses under his breath. “I’ll call him in the morning. She’ll need to be repaired if you’ve done any real damage.”
“She’ll be fine,” Evan says defensively. “She needed to learn a lesson.”
Iosef waves him off. “My apologies,” he says finally. “We can bring you another girl, if you want a third.”
Just like that. As if they’re a commodity, nothing more. I swallow back my anger, take another long drink of vodka, and brush some of the blonde’s hair off of her shoulder without actually touching her, in an effort to look as if I’m engaging in some way with their gifts.
The party continues into the early morning hours. More drinks, more posturing, and false camaraderie. Grigory passes out in his chair around three a.m., snoring loudly. Evan disappears with two of the women, and I don't let myself think about what he's doing to them. Pyotr excuses himself around four, still relatively sober, his eyes sharp as he bids me goodnight.
"I look forward to continuing our discussion tomorrow," he says. "I think we can come to an arrangement that benefits everyone."
"I'm sure we can."
Iosef is the last to go, finally too drunk to maintain his host persona. His words are slurred, his movements uncoordinated.
"Your room is ready," he says, clapping me on the shoulder again. "Top floor, east wing. Best room in the house. Best view. Anything you need, just ask. Anything at all. We're friends now, yes? Good friends."
"Good friends," I echo, unsmiling. He’s too drunk to notice at this point.
