Page 29 of Nemesis

“I heard you’re quite the little interrogator, yourself.”

I gaze up from my knees, just in time to see Vas spit a wad of blood, lazily meeting the man’s gaze.

“I dabble.”

“Ah.” Sarcasm drips like spoiled honey.

Dead Fucker #1, as I affectionately call him in my mind. He seems to be the leader of this unpleasant operation.

“Please, tell me then,” he continues. “How am I doing?”

“One would assume quite well, seeing as I’ve answered all of your questions,” Vasiliy replies in an unbothered tone.

My flinch beats the next attack by half a second.

Dead Fucker #1’s fist makes contact with Vasiliy’s face so many times that the movement blurs in my sight. Every impact comes with a wet sound, like a slab of meat hitting the cutting board. I didn’t know the human body could sound like that. My nails dig into the flesh of my cheeks. He doesn’t cry out, but every once in a while, a choked breath will suck through the air.

I hate those breaths the most.

“You want to know what I think?” the man says, a drop of sweat dripping from his brow as his fists unfurl. “I think you are beginning to outlive your usefulness.”

Vasiliy spits again, and this time, the glob of blood smacks against our captor’s boot. “I have the type of information on two separate Bratvas that many would die to inherit.” Impossibly, he manages to crack his bloody, swollen lips in a cocky smirk. “I think I’m the most useful thing you’ve ever had.”

I’m so taken aback by the taunt that I don’t notice the glint of silver until it’s too late. I’m not able to warn him. The blade arcs through the air, landing in the middle of Vasiliy’s thigh with a piercing squelch.

My own leg twitches.

The pained hiss that ricochets through the space is the only sign that he’s in bad shape. He doesn’t usually give them his reactions.

My forehead kisses my knees. Grounding breaths, one after another.

No more, I want to plead. Wetness drips down my eyelids, splattering across the dark, gritty floor below.

Two thunks against the far door. I don’t lift my head. I don’t want any of our captors to see my tears. Dead Fuckers 2, 3, and 4 pour into the room, footsteps rattling the floor. From the corner of my eye, I watch as they uncuff the restraints and heave Vasiliy’s massive body between their arms. It takes all three of them to balance the weight of his swaying form.

I crawl to my feet when the bars rattle. If I thought he looked bad last time, now he looks like he’s knocking on death’s door. His face is so swollen that I can hardly see the glint in his bright blue eyes. Fresh blood pours off his body from injuries, new and old.

How could he be responding so calmly to their questions in this state? My back presses against the wall as I wait for them to throw his body in like last time.

I had no idea that pigeons bled red, just like us. Not until I lifted that heavy brick from the floor…

Vasiliy has a very particular scent; musk mixed with something dark and addictive that I don’t have the vocabulary to name. It’s a constant in here—one I’ve learned to seek out in the last few days, even from across the cage. But I don’t smell it anymore.

As the guards lug his unsteady form further into the cage, I should be able to get a hit of that intoxicating scent, and yet, all I smell is iron, sharp and sour. I wait. For them to drop him to the floor. For those heavy footsteps to dissipate in the distance, and silence to fall back over like a blanket of comfort.

The men don’t move.

Hands, Octavia. Watch the hands.

I learned a long time ago that faces lie the most. Hands are honest.

Something sparkles through the darkness. A flash of silver. Rings?

No. Too large.

The metal extends over the man’s knuckles, fitting like a second skin over the grooves and peaks. When the hands start to curl, I realize what I’m looking at.

“Stop,” I shriek, peeling myself off the wall. Adrenaline pours through my bloodstream, strangling my next breath.