Page 115 of Captive Ruin

I raise a finger apologetically, signaling I’ll just be another minute, and get a nod of acceptance.

Turning my back, I shift my phone to my other ear. “I’m not expecting you to make the trip. It’s going to be a very simple, quiet affair.”

“Nonsense. My closest friend is getting married. I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Well, it would be good to see you. It’s been too long.”

“Life keeps us apart, doesn’t it?” Bastien chuckles, then sobers. “How are you getting on with the Volkovs?”

“Making progress,” I say flatly. “I know who I’m targeting. Reaching him is proving challenging.”

“Do you need help?”

“No, I want to do it myself.” My lip curls in anger. “They made it personal.”

“Oh? What don’t I know?”

“They sent men after Amelia, so let’s say I’m incentivized.”

“They did what?” Bastien growls down the phone. “They think they can come after anyone in my organization? Say the word, I’ll call in the whole of Sentinel and we’ll kick those fuckers back to Russia.”

“Last we spoke, you were trying to avoid a war.”

“That was before they targeted your woman.”

My woman. Yes, that’s what she is.

“I appreciate the offer, but I’ll manage it for now,” I tell him.

“It’s your call. I won’t get in the way when it’s personal.”

“Thank you. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Good.” The line clicks dead, Bastien ending the call with his usual disdain for pleasantries.

I slip my phone into my pocket and turn back. “Sorry for the delay.”

“It’s fine,” Oleg Petrov mutters, his voice hoarse.

“No really, my apologies. So unprofessional.” I run my fingers over the options on the steel tray, trying to decide which one to use next. “It’s just I’m getting married in ten days. You know how it is, right? So much to arrange.”

“Congratulations,” he chokes out.

“Thank you.” I pick up the hacksaw, tilting it to reflect the light as I think of how positive I feel these days. And it’s all due to her. “I’m truly looking forward to it. It’s galling that your organization almost took my Amelia from me.”

Petrov swallows hard, the whites of his eyes showing as he stares at my choice. His toes scratch at the floor as he dangles from the meat hook by his bound hands. Two of his fingers jut out at unnatural angles, making him look like a broken puppet.

It’s been a busy hour, and one I’ve very much enjoyed, if I’m honest.

Usually, I don’t—torture isn’t really my thing—but this is the man who ordered the two boyeviki to Amelia’s apartment. Every cut, every scream, every small bone broken is a salve on my rage when I think how close they got to her.

“Nothing to say?” I ask, gesturing aimlessly with the hacksaw. “You weren’t this quiet a few minutes ago.”

No, he was screaming.

His lower lip wobbles uncontrollably as his eyes track my every movement. It seems he doesn’t like the idea of the hacksaw. But on second thought, neither do I. Lots of uses, but it does get very messy. I return it to the tray.

“Amelia was quieter last night too,” I muse, my thoughts never far from my Little Stray. “Quieter than she usually is, anyway.” Maybe the hammer. Crude, but effective. “Of course, it could’ve been because I gagged her, but even so, she really gets into it when my fingers are inside her, rubbing that spot…”