Page 64 of Nemesis

Is this really my life now? I close the door behind me and lean against the wood frame, trying to find my bearings. My heart pumps faster, begging me to return to Vasiliy’s side. The stupid anatomical betrayal makes me even angrier. All of this damage, this weakness; all of it because two men couldn’t bury a twenty-year-old hatchet?

Pull it together, Octavia. You have to go back in there and demand more information, or they’ll never spill it freely again.

I’m wiping my face, desperate to clear my head, when I catch a red glint from the corner of my eye.

Down the hall, a small pool of liquid spills across the floorboards. That copper scent teases my nostrils once again, but this time, I’m not entirely certain that it’s all in my head.

A bad feeling settles in my stomach. I take a step closer, sticking to the wall.

Great. Now I’m seeing things. It’s not like I was the picture of mental stability before this week from hell. There’s only so much a mind can take…

The thought trails off when my next step brings me close enough to see the prone figure become visible on the floor.

One of my father’s guards.

I rush over, blood soaking into the cloth of my pants as I kneel and press two fingers to his neck. Vomit rises in my throat as I do. I don’t know where the instinct comes from exactly—it’s not like I’ve come across many bodies before. I’ve seen a few of my classmates pass out from time to time, but that was nothing like this. Shit. Warm, sticky blood coats the man’s torso, pouring from several wounds in his chest.

No beats meet my fingers.

No pulse.

The substance is still so damn warm beneath my fingers. A fresh kill.

My stomach knots.

Think, Octavia. I should call for help, right?

But something stops me from shouting out. The sudden thought is built from everything I’ve gone through in the past week. Something old Octavia would have never considered before opening her mouth to scream.

Where there’s a gunshot, there’s always a gun.

A floorboard creaks behind me.

My bloody hand clambers into the holster still strapped to the body. Cool metal meets my palm, foreign and heavy. The wood behind me groans again.

I flip, fingers fumbling into the trigger of the gun, which is now pointed directly at an unfamiliar man with a balaclava covering his face. His dark eyes widen when he spots my weapon. His own arm lifts, drawing my attention to the gun in his grip.

I don’t think.

There’s no time.

My finger presses down, squeezing the trigger with all my might.

Pop.

The noise is deafening, and my arm burns from the kickback, throwing me off my balance. By the time I finally open my eyes, the man in the balaclava isn’t standing there anymore.

“Iknow you think you’re supporting her, but she didn’t grow up in this world. She has no idea what she’s getting into,” Siderov scolds from behind his desk, leveling me with a condescending look.

“And whose fault would that be?” I prod, enjoying the spark of anger that flares at my words. If he thinks he can convince me to leave Octavia in the dark, he’s sorely mistaken about my priorities.

Now that his daughter has left the room, Sasha Siderov’s face resumes its primary, predatory expression. His spine straightens a bit further. His brows lower, shadowing those calculating eyes. Ah. So this is where the formidable Bratva boss was hiding.

“Come on, kid. We both know this isn’t going to end well.” He tilts his head, his only tell before firing the first shot. “I bet she doesn’t even know why you got shipped to the US in the first place.”

She does. Sort of.

“No idea what you’re talking about.” I pick dirt from my nail, feigning boredom.