Page 10

“Fuck.”

My shout echoes around the tiny space. The sneaker bounces harmlessly off the concrete.

I flex my aching hands, forcing the tremor out of my fingers. Burying Artem’s ghost deep where it belongs.

All that.

All that for nothing. Because I let down my guard.

Fishing handcuffs out of my pocket, I grasp Viktoriya’s hand and haul her to her feet. Before she can do anything stupid like try to run from me, I snap one cuff around her wrist and cinch it tight. The other handcuff goes around my own wrist.

The handcuffs are rarely necessary, but I take pleasure in them this time. A physical reminder to myself as much as to her that control is restored.

Little Miss Morozova has already proved she’s trouble.

“What are you doing?” she gasps.

I loom over her, pulling the chain until she’s flush against my chest. Her head snaps back, her chin tilted high with a fierce, spitting defiance. She’s hollowed out, bruised, and filthy, but this girl is a survivor.

“We have a long way to go, and I’ve already had enough of you, Viktoriya. Between here and Corvale, you’re going to follow my rules, which are that you shut up and do what you’re told.”

Viktoriya tugs against the metal bracelet. “Why are you locking me up?”

I smile, baring my teeth at her in the near darkness. “All part of the service.”

2

Viktoriya

The man who cuffed me to him is standing very close. I have to tip my chin all the way up to look at him, he’s that tall and broad. He fills my field of vision, radiating coldness and menace, and his pale eyes are fixed on mine with an intent I don’t understand.

This man’s attention feels dangerous, like being caught in a hunter’s sights.

I stare at the metal cuff around my wrist, my mind moving slowly through fog. The metal is cold and tight. Not enough to cut off circulation, but enough that I’m aware of it with every small movement I make.

I drag my eyes around the room, which was filled with cowering, shivering women just moments ago. I don’t know how long I’ve been down here because time ceased to mean anything after a while. I try to count backward, but I can’t. There was darkness, fear, unwashed bodies, and Emily’s voice in the dark. The only thing keeping me tethered to reality.

I don’t even understand how I got here. I was on the street, standing next to a beautiful girl who was asking me for directions. She was late to a modeling audition, and I was trying to help her find where she needed to go, when suddenly two men came out of the alley and grabbed us. They shoved us into an idling van, then I felt a cold sting in my neck. When I woke up, I wasn’t anywhere I recognized.

I didn’t understand. I still don’t understand it.

Ever since that moment, there has only been surviving the next hour, and the one after that.

We weren’t allowed to ask questions. We were told to keep quiet and do as we were told, and the ones who didn’t suffered for it. A girl who’d been shivering in a tiny gold dress became defiant, screaming to be let go. They drugged her, and when she woke up, she screamed even louder. They drugged her again, and she didn’t wake up after that. I saw one of the men nudging her with the toe of his shoe after she’d been motionless for a day and a half. They dragged her up the stairs by her feet, her head thudding against every single step, her eyes dull and staring.

When Emily argued with them, they drugged her, too.

Now the ones who survived are gone. They raced up the stairs, leaving me and Emily behind.

My head aches with a dull, persistent throb. My other wrist, the one that’s not manacled, screams every time I move it. I was pushed to the ground a few days ago and landed hard, and it hasn’t been right since. I can’t make my eyes focus. Everything at the edges of my vision has a slight blur to it, even when I blink and shake my head.

The man standing over me wears an expensive suit that has no business in a place like this. His pale eyes are sharp and there are tattoos inked onto his throat and decorating his hands. He’s older than I am, with a few rugged lines on his face that speak of age and experience. I would guess he’s about forty. There’s blood on his shirt that I don’t think is his. He was holding a gun a moment ago, but I can’t see it anymore.

He’s smiling down at me, his teeth glinting in the dark.

I’ve been living from moment to moment, not daring to wonder what’s going to happen next. Praying that it wouldn’t get worse.

It’s worse.