Page 48 of Nemesis

That’s when it registers: he’s the man I saw in the basement, seconds before I passed out. I didn’t even realize I’m not in the cage anymore.

How long ago was that? And where am I now?

But before I find a single answer, another, far more important thought slices into my consciousness.

Where is Vasiliy?

My entire body tenses. I clench the soft bedsheet, pulling the fabric up to my ribs like a protective shield.

The strange man freezes, lifting his palms in surrender. It’s almost comical, given his massive size and brutal features. “Annika, you’re safe. I promise⁠—”

“My name is Octavia!” I yell, voice raw and raspy. I can’t hold back the response, which bursts free like a condensed explosion in the base of my ribs. A fluffy, white pillow finds my searching hand seconds before it flies through the air, smacking directly into the man’s shocked face.

Someone standing at the door cackles. I don’t recognize his light brown hair and subtle grin, but he looks to be around the same age as the man beside me. His facial hair is more of a stubble, thickening over his top lip in a way that only emphasizes his tight smile.

My fingers fold into fists as I wait for the man in front of me to punish me for my outburst. In the cage, I would never have risked a shout like that. Not without preparing for the consequences. My good hand lifts, thumbing the wound on my cheek, only to meet the scratchy material of some kind of bandage.

“I’m sorry, love. Octavia,” he says softly, rehearsing the name like he’s trying to memorize it. “You’re safe here, Octavia.”

“Fucking debatable,” I mutter, sitting up as best as I can. This time, the light-haired man standing at the door manages to stifle his laughter. Barely.

The hazy memories of torture return, causing my arms to shake with phantom pain. Needles. One after the other, shoved beneath my skin. Gauzy bandages wrap my entire right hand, covering everything from the tips of my fingers to the top of my wrist in tight spirals of fabric. I twist my arm back and forth, hissing through the sharp twinges of pain that respond to the movement.

“Our doctor says it will heal. Little, if any, permanent damage.”

This time, I appreciate the man’s contribution of unemotional, direct information. I don’t wanna peel back the bandage and take a look for myself. Not with the sharp scent of blood still so fresh in my memory.

“Can I get you anything, Octavia?” He shuffles forward. “Water, or food, or⁠—”

“Vasiliy.”

I pin the older man with my coldest stare, watching as an expression of pure confusion morphs his features. Dark hair, peppered with grey, falls across his forehead as he tilts his head.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Where is the man who was with me?”

“The man who was hurting you is dead, Ann—Octavia,” he says. Why does everyone keep calling me by that name?

“No, not him.” I shake my head with too much force, causing a painful grimace. “The other man. The one in my cage.”

Fury lines his eyes at the word cage, but he seems to catch my meaning. “Oh. The Morozov boy,” he says. “You don’t have to worry about him either…”

In one quick motion, I grab the man’s collar with my good hand and drag him close. His spicy cologne fills my nostrils. The scent is nothing like the fragrances I’ve smelled from the ballet’s pompous donors. It doesn’t scream wealth and effort. It’s a subtle extension of his sharp, calculating eyes, which widen a fraction at my intrusion. Footsteps slap against the floor as men pile into the room, hands reaching for guns.

The weapons should frighten me. Two weeks ago, just the sight of so many guns would’ve had me stumbling behind this bed and taking cover on my hands and knees, but after days in the dark, I’m desensitized. I’m used to staring down the dark pits of barrels aimed at my face, and knives pressing into my flesh. All that’s left is to brace for the pain.

The man doesn’t fight my pull, simply raising his hand in a small wave to the newcomers. I watch, curious, as the group immediately lowers their weapons and stands down.

Interesting.

“I know I don’t look like much,” I say, tightening my grip on the expensive fabric of his lapel. “But if you hurt one hair on that man’s head, I will find a very creative way to end you if it’s the last thing I do.” Barely an inch separates our faces as I carve out my threat. “I’ll bring you down to the dirt with me.”

Those bright green eyes flare even brighter. But this guy has a very odd reaction to being threatened. Instead of anger, his lips twitch into a confusing grin.

“No, I don’t think we’ll be needing that DNA test, after all,” the grinning man in the doorway laughs as he leans against the frame.

“You think I’m bluffing?” I ask, eyes bouncing between them.