Page 30 of Nemesis

The silver knuckles unfurl. I lift my eyes to find a dark pair already settled on me. The other two guards also look to me, dropping Vasiliy’s limp form with a thunk.

“Well, well,” Silver Knuckles says. His lips stretch into a terrifying smile. “So nice of you to join us, princess. I’ve been patiently waiting for my turn with you all week.”

I ignore the words, stepping in front of Vasiliy’s crumpled form. My blood pulses between my ears. Holding their attention feels like wearing a bright red target. Three strange faces look down at me, lit with amusement. Hook nose. Heart-shaped jaw. Dark, low brows. Their various features burn into my memory.

The faces of the men who will kill me.

“He can’t take any more,” I hiss. “What will your boss do if you accidentally kill him before he gives you what you need?”

Fire laces my scalp as Silver Knuckles yanks back my hair, a cruel smile playing across his lips. “We were never after him in the first place.” He pulls again, lurching me off balance with the movement. “It wouldn’t be a major loss. You, however…”

My spine crunches against the wall, knocking all the air from my lungs. A slow-moving panic stiffens my muscles, much like the sickness that gripped me years ago.

“Calm down, Stafford,” one of the others says, arms crossing over his chest with discomfort. “We have orders⁠—”

“Fuck the orders,” Silver Knuckles, Stafford, spits in my face. “It’s been days, and he still hasn’t asked her a single question.”

You’re not there, I whisper into my mind, even as ballet barres rise up in the darkness like a cursed mirage. These are different men.

“That’s because he’s been trying to set up the trade! You know that, dumbass,” another voice argues. The tone warps in my mind.

It’s not him, Octavia.

My scalp burns as I tug against the hold on my hair, tears trickling down my cheeks. I need him off. I need…

Something moves on the floor—Vasiliy’s form curls like he’s trying to get up. If he regains their attention, they’re going to kill him.

A hand rips open my dress from the torn seam, exposing my skin to the cool air. The fabric gives way one seam at a time, leaving my chest naked, save for a coating of cool terror.

Time twists in the cruelest way.

I’m not in the cage anymore. I’m standing in Studio B under the soft glow of moonlight pouring through the windows. There are still three figures standing over me. Different men, same objective. They’re company men—hired staff that can do whatever they want and get away with it. Back then, I had no idea how far that power extended.

My scalp burns again, slamming me back into the wall. It’s enough to chip away a few pieces of the memory. My lip curls in a vicious snarl. I’m not sixteen anymore. And I’ve replayed that particular night so many times, I know exactly what I wish I’d done the first time. Everything hurts, but I pull against the pain just enough to snap forward with my teeth.

For a second, everything stops.

A breath hitches.

Warm iron spills into my mouth, filling my cheeks.

Time catches up to us all as the man releases a shriek that has my teeth digging deeper into his vibrating throat. He pulls back, but I refuse to release. Skin rips open between my teeth, severing a revolting chunk of flesh in my mouth. I spit it out, choking down a gag.

“What the hell is going on in here?” a voice booms from the door on the other side of the cage.

The hand wraps my throat before I can manage to duck. “You fucking cunt,” Silver Knuckles spits, slamming my skull against the wall. Pain blooms on impact, blurring the world around me. I can barely make out Vasiliy’s shaky form, desperately climbing to his feet. I hear his growling voice somewhere close by, but he’s not speaking English.

“That bitch bit me!”

“You’re a fucking idiot, Stafford,” another voice snaps out. “Get out of there. Now!”

I think he responds. The tight grip around my neck disappears. Blurs swing through the shadows, followed by the telltale clang of the cage door closing.

I slide down the wall…falling…

The impact never comes.

Bodies, towering over me. A hand wrapped into my hair. My leotard was torn at the seam, each stitch stretching tight before the telltale pop.