Dmitry
Ikilled the engine three kilometers outside St. Petersburg and let the silence swallow the space.
The old slaughterhouse stood in the dark distance like a rotting cathedral. The red brick was weathered and aged, all the windows long since broken, and the loading bays hung open like the building was screaming for help.
I bought the property twenty years ago with blood money and turned it into a house of horrors. A tomb no one ever left.
Tonight, it would hold something I never planned on taking or keeping.
Snow hissed against the windshield. Zoya was still out cold, silent and unmoving. I climbed out, boots crunching on frozen gravel, and opened the rear door.
After removing the linens from the laundry cart, I stared at her. Zoya Ivanova lay exactly where I’d left her. Her wrists and ankles were still zip-tied, and her mouth sealed with tape, an obscene sight contrasting with the diamonds glittering at her neck.
Her chest rose and fell, slow and easy. The pulse at her throat fluttered like a trapped bird.
I brushed my finger along her cheek. Her skin was like silk and ice. Her ivory gown had ridden up during the drive, exposing the long, pale line of one thigh.
I lifted her as if she weighed nothing and carried her through the loading bay. The air inside hit like a fist. The memories of raw meat, bleach, and twenty-year-old blood were forever baked into the concrete and steel.
Chains hung from overhead rails, rusted meat hooks swaying in the draft. I walked past them all to the converted freezer room at the back.
Steel door. Biometric lock I’d installed myself. I unlocked it, and it opened with silent fluidity.
Inside, the walls were lined with stainless-steel tables, drains in the floor, and one drainpipe bolted to the far wall.
I’d killed in here, cleaned bodies, and carved them up for fun… to teach lessons about betrayal.
What was new for me was keeping someone alive here.
I laid her on the floor. The gown pooled around her like spilled cream. It was hard not to notice the way her nipples hardened against the cold in the air. The building wasn’t heated. It helped in keeping the blood flow to a minimum.
I sliced through the zip ties binding her ankles, freeing her legs just enough for limited movement. But for her wrists, I replaced the flimsy plastic with metal handcuffs, snapping them shut. I threaded a sturdy chain through the cuff links next, securing it with a padlock to the rusted drainpipe overhead. The length was deliberate. It was short enough that she could stand up but her movement was limited.
Any desperate yank would only earn her bruises, the solid steel impervious to picks or raw force without tools far beyond her reach. I contemplated leaving the tape on her mouth but took it off. It didn’t matter how much she screamed. No one would hear her here.
She stirred after about half an hour, and I stepped back, leaning against the steel table and waited.
Her lashes fluttered. A low sound came from her, and in a matter of seconds, she jerked upright, chains rattling, eyes flying open. I stared at her blue eyes, hating that I felt anything but indifference when I looked at her.
She scanned the room before her gaze found me instantly. I watched as realization hit her in stages. And then she made a panicked, fear-stricken sound. Not a scream but one of a cornered animal that knew they were trapped.
I didn’t move, didn’t respond. But then, I felt powerful, feral, and took a step forward. She scrambled back until the chain snapped taut, knees drawn to her chest, trying to cover herself.
“Ty trushlivyy ublyudok!” she spat, voice hoarse from the chloroform.You cowardly bastard!Her Russian was soft and expensive, finishing-school perfect. Her father’s money—blood money—had paid for her upbringing.
I walked toward her, slow, measured, intimidating. My boots echoed around the small room, and she shrank against the wall, breath sawing in and out. My eyes drew down to her still hard nipples poking against the silk of her gown. I stopped and crouched, bringing us to eye level.
“Listen carefully, Zoya Ivanova,” I said in English, voice low. “You’re in my world now. That means my rules.”
Her eyes blazed, but she pursed her lips and said nothing for long seconds. Fire burned in her stare, and my cock twitched because of it.
“My father will?—”
“Your father will watch,” I cut in but didn’t elaborate on what exactly he’d be watching me do to her. I pulled a burner phone from my pocket, opened the camera, and hit record. I saw the confusion on her face, but then realization took root and her alabaster skin turned a beautiful shade of pink from her anger.
I held it steady on her face, recording her tears, fury, and bruises her father had given her. I wanted that fucker to see all of it.
“Day one,” I said in a voice that was flat and cold, the lens now pointed at Zoya. “Your daughter is mine now. Watch her bleed for what you did to me and mine.” A rush filled me when I hit send.
