Page 35 of Nemesis

“Get back,” I shout. More clots open across my chest and arms. Everything throbs, and yet, the only sensation pumping through my veins is the icy sliver of terror. I don’t think I’ve ever been so cold in my entire fucking life.

My words are useless. A pang echoes through the room as her small body is thrown into the cage wall, those pale arms captured through the bars.

I forget to breathe. I don’t remember how, not as my mouth fills with thick, sharp fluid that spills from the corners of my lips. Must’ve reopened that wound, too, I realize. A feminine grunt snaps me back to the scene behind me.

“Maybe you’ll learn manners if you have to wear the reminder yourself,” Stafford says, lifting the blade. A roar leaves my chest when he wraps his entire hand around her narrow throat. The other lifts to her face, not hesitating before dragging his blade through one perfect, unmarred cheek.

Fire lances through my skin with an intensity that I haven’t felt in all of my twenty-one years. The wound is a slow infliction, each second stretching into a small oblivion, the same way it does when you’re holding a plank, or watching a train derail off the side of a cliff. Cold metal presses into my neck and ribs as the guard drags me closer from the other side of the bars, one hand wrapped around the column of my neck, the other pressing his knife even deeper into my flesh.

I think I cry out, though I’m not hearing much of anything right now. My entire world is that brutal, unending streak of pain.

But if I thought the slice itself was bad, that’s nothing compared to the agony when he twists the handle, yanking back the metal embedded in my cheek. This time, I know a shriek passes through my lips. The moment his grip releases, I stumble back into the darkness. My whole face is wet and slippery, and I cradle the pulsing wound as I cower further into the cell.

It’s only a cut, Octavia. Vasiliy has been sliced up for days. This last round was worse than usual, too. This time, I forced myself to watch every second of his pain. I didn’t escape into the filthy cracks in the floor or distract myself with running choreography in my head. That in itself was a heavier feat than I expected.

I’ve been tuning my mind with escapism since I was nothing but a dirty kid crying myself to sleep in a lumpy cot. It was a small blessing to learn that skill before I needed it. After the assault, it was like my brain rebooted with busted coding. Simple things like walking into the studio every morning or allowing my partners to grip onto my hips in pas de deux classes sent me into heaving spirals. It took me a week to step back into the studio.

I’ll never forget their expressions when I walked through that glass door and found my spot at the barre. The memory is still bathed in Gershwin’s slinky notes in my mind. With each iteration of the composition, I gained stability. Soon enough, I was seeking out those three men’s faces with a morose curiosity. I couldn’t comprehend it—how men could do such wretched things in the cover of night and then look right into your face under the rays of morning sun.

I still don’t understand. Not so much the despicable impulses, but the audacity. How strange that nature created a creature who would hold me down and shove his dick into my mouth, and then show up the next day with a clean conscience and a bright future.

He’s speaking, I realize as my ass hits the floor. I keep scooting back into the safe blanket of darkness.

“…about time someone disciplined your bratty ass,” the guard rants on, a cruel laugh trickling down. Vasiliy’s ragged shouts still whip the air, making it difficult to focus on individual words. “If you ever have the opportunity to look at yourself again, you’ll remember this, bitch. You’ll remember me.”

My head goes light. I try to find that shred of bravery that allowed me to rise and step toward the bars to protect Vasiliy from taking my punishment, but it won’t reveal itself. He couldn’t lose any more blood. Not if he was going to return to the cage. I don’t regret what I did.

Suddenly, the cage door slams.

My head jerks up, sending a fresh wave of pain through the swollen area. My tension immediately unravels at the sight of Vasiliy back inside our safe bounds, sprawled across the floor where he’d been tossed in. The guard leaves quickly, but not before clicking off the small bulb hanging above the interrogation chair, plunging the entire room into darkness.

He’s so damn fast, I don’t even hear him move. I’m curled up on the ground, and then I’m not. Skin is beneath mine. Arms frame my entire form. It takes a few blinks to make sense of the fact that he tucked me into his lap.

“Let me see,” his insistent voice cuts in, hand finding my chin and angling my face.

“You can’t see anything,” I whisper, even as I tilt in compliance. There it is—that sliver of bravery. Maybe it’s him who brings it out.

“Hush.” He leans forward until I can feel his warm breath against the wet throb. “Not clotting,” he murmurs, before reaching down to the fabric of my dress and ripping a strip from the end.

“You had it worse, Vas,” I say, holding my chin still in his hand. “We should be treating your wounds, not mine.”

“He cut you deeper than me.” The bundled strip of cloth presses hard against my wound, causing me to flinch. “Transverse facial artery,” he murmurs to himself.

“Sometimes it’s scary how much you know about blood and wounds.”

A huff of air tickles my lashes. “Letting them bleed out is bad for my reputation.”

Whatever that means.

I can’t help but hiss when the pressure increases against the raw wound. With a few more blinks, my eyes adjust well enough to catch his face shifting above. Something soft grazes my forehead, soothing the pain.

“If you ever interrogate me, I’d appreciate it if you’d stick to below the neck,” I choke out. “Wouldn’t want to die more deformed than I already am.”

“I would never hurt a hair on your head,” he whispers onto my skin. My mouth gapes open a little when I feel his lips, cracked and hot, press into my brow. “And you are not deformed.”

Sure. I tuck my chin down, and the sharp movement sends a punishing throb down my entire face. I know the guard wouldn’t have released me if he hadn’t been satisfied with the damage. My hands fold into my lap, resisting the urge to touch the wetness dripping onto my lips and down my chin.

“But if you ever do something like that again, there’s a very good chance that you’ll be stuck in here alone, because I’m pretty sure you gave me a heart attack. Do us both a favor and stay away from the bars next time.”