Page 27 of Nemesis

“What am I supposed to do with that?” The words are out of my mouth before I allow it. I don’t like how soft they sound.

Vasiliy blinks. For a moment, I think he’ll give me some genuine advice. But then a shadow falls over his features, soaked in dismay. “I couldn’t care less what you do. When I find an opening, I’m getting the fuck out of this mess. None of those soppy pleas will stop me this time.”

He finally pulls back, his grip disappearing with those hot breaths and steady drips of blood.

My lungs heave to refill.

He said when.

When I find an opening. Because he’s gotten out of these situations plenty of times before, and he has no intention of taking me with him. I wipe his blood from my cheek. The substance smears, darkening my palm. I’m not sure why his line in the sand stings so much. I have plenty of practice with abandonment.

Of course, he’d throw me to the wolves to free himself.

We’re strangers.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about your own extensive suffering,” he says, drawing me away from my thoughts. “I seriously doubt you’ll last a day in that chair.”

“You don’t know me,” I defend half-heartedly. “I’m made of harder stuff than that.” Pulling myself up from the ground, I crawl over to the other side of the cage, set on creating as much space between the psycho and me as possible. I wish they had separated us.

“Are you, little ballerina?” he asks with a condescending chuckle, settling against the wall opposite me. “Because, for a second there, I thought I’d have to chew your hand free from its clutch on my chest.”

“You’re such a dick,” I mutter, folding my knees to meet my breasts.

He raises his arm, gesturing to the cut I reopened on his wrist. “Sure you don’t want to tend to my injuries? Lick em’ clean? Maybe I’ll take pity and kill you myself if you ask nicely.”

“I hope you get sepsis and die.”

“You wouldn’t have survived the day without me, zlaya.”

It’s hard to believe that only ten minutes earlier, I was huddled into a miserable ball, feeling sorry for this asshole.

“Why are you calling me that? What does it mean?”

“Zlaya?”

I nod, shivering against the cold air. My eyelids grow heavy, so at odds with the live wire of fear crackling through my veins. It’s a strange type of exhaustion, one I never felt after an extensive performance or a twelve-hour rehearsal day. A long time passes before he bothers to respond, but I suppose time is the one luxury we have.

“I’ll tell you if we get out of here,” he mutters.

I’m not sure if some protective part of my brain takes the reins, but for the softest second, I almost believe we have a chance of making it out alive.

The girl’s teeth are chattering.

It’s incredibly irritating for several reasons. First, the vibrating rhythm is keeping me from the few hours of uninterrupted sleep I’m being afforded. They didn’t fuck me up too badly in the chair today, but my body needs to heal for whatever they have planned next.

Second, no matter how many times I remind myself of the likelihood of her turning out to be a spy or a plant, a genuine tinge of pity has been creeping in around the edges of my mind. I suppose Uncle’s right. I have gone soft if all it takes is a bit of shivering to break down my fortified walls.

Personally, I blame the performance.

Watching her dance felt a little too honest. It’s like when I reach the sweet spot of my interrogations, and the men in my chair crack open like a soft-boiled egg. I no longer need to voice my questions—I can see the information, along with all the other bullshit that rots in the human mind. Fear. Love. Shame.

When she was dancing on that stage, her shell cracked open behind the tulle and spectacle, and there was only one thing underneath. A rarity. All I could see was anger, the type that burns into every gasp of air. The kind that singes my own lungs more nights than I’d like to admit.

Stop thinking about her.

She is the reason I’m in this mess to begin with. For once, this battle isn’t mine to fight.

A whimper pulls my attention. The room’s so quiet that the soft sound bounces along the walls in a teasing echo. She’s still curled up on the far side of the cage where she fell asleep less than an hour ago. It’s a skill to accurately mark the passing of time when you’re disoriented by darkness—one I mastered by the age of twelve. I wonder how captivity feels for someone who dances under the lights every night for an enraptured audience. I bet she’s never been shoved into the darkness a day in her life.