Page 59 of Nemesis

Only to be greeted with a speechless, sleep-tossed Octavia staring at me from the bed. Eyes very much awake and flickering with irritation. I straighten awkwardly, brushing my dusty palms against my even dirtier pants.

“We have a door, Vas. Did you even think to try it before cosplaying Spider-Man?”

“Where’s New Jersey?” I ask, ignoring her outrage.

“We’re in New Jersey? That sucks.”

That’s all she provides before face-planting back into the blankets and tugging a pillow over her face. I think it’s just her typical dramatics, that is, until a soft, unmistakable snore whistles through the air. My upper lip twitches.

I allow her to sleep for another hour, sitting in a nearby chair while I try to puzzle all the pieces together. Sasha’s explanation of our captivity being nothing more than a random hit has me thrown. I didn’t realize things were that bad between the feuding Bratvas, but, then again, I haven’t looked into Siderov or Popov in many years. Uncle was never interested in what either had to offer.

I pull apart the information, scouring for something, anything to take my mind off the raw question Octavia asked me last night. Just the idea of leaving her makes my stomach hurt.

Eventually, I’m feeling too restless to sit still.

I rise to my feet, but before I can take a single step, a crisp, white pillow comes flying off the bed.

I catch it out of the air with one hand.

“Don’t. Even. Think about it.”

“Think about what?” I ask in confusion.

“Jumping out the window again, climbing onto the roof, or whatever foolish plans you have cooking up in that dense skull of yours.”

I smile. “You’re bossy in the morning.” She grumbles as I walk over to her side. “I was only coming over to check your bandages. No need to get your panties twisted.”

“That is not the expression,” she mumbles under her breath, but still holds out her wrapped right arm for my inspection.

I pull off the stretchy white bands with gentle touches until I reach the red-stained layer.

The sight takes me right back to that cage. My vision threatens to warp into the helpless snapshot of Octavia tied to that chair. The metal bars that stood between us. Fuck. I force the emotions down.

“How’s the pain?” I ask evenly, unveiling finger by finger.

She has dissolvable stitches under each nail and a few above her cuticles. I’ve never seen the aftermath of this particular injury. My victims never lived long enough to experience it.

“I think whatever pain meds they gave me are beginning to wear off, but I’m good,” she says, eyes almost clinical as she examines the damage. I grunt, reminding myself that this is a woman accustomed to withstanding pain. I brush the bandage taped to her cheek.

Her head tilts toward my touch. “Can I take a shower before you wrap me back up? I smell like shit.”

“You smell fine to me,” I say with a gentle smile. Fuck. What’s happening to me? “Go ahead. I’ll wrap it back up when you get out.” I take one final look at a less-severe cut stitched up on her chest before releasing her. “I’ll find you some new clothes, too,” I call out before she closes the bathroom door, realizing she’s still wearing the dress she was taken in—what’s left of it, anyway. I don’t like the memory it triggers.

When I open our bedroom door for the first time, I’m relatively unsurprised to find an entire team of soldiers monitoring the exit. She is a Bratva heir, after all. I wonder if she realized yet that she’ll never have the semblance of privacy again without a team of killers monitoring possible threats. If only they remembered the windows.

“Need something?” one asks in a thick Russian accent, not too different from my own.

“She needs more pain meds, and we both require a new set of clothes.”

At the mention of Octavia, the man’s entire demeanor shifts, interest trickling into his stoic features. I don’t particularly like the enthusiasm, especially knowing Octavia is now a high-ranking member of their syndicate. Siderov told her that he wouldn’t marry her off for an alliance, but such unions are deeply rooted in our way of life. I wouldn’t put it past the lower-ranking soldiers to make their bids.

A wall of steam seeps into the room as Octavia steps out of the bathroom in the black sweats and hoodie I left out for her. The humorously large clothes hang from her small frame. It’s truly a marvel that she can fit such a massive attitude into such a tiny body. She needs to eat more, especially if we start training together.

“I’m never going a single day without a shower ever again,” she announces before throwing herself onto the bed.

I chuckle. “What if we go hiking?”

“You can hike. I’ll stay in a spa next door.”