by Elodie Colt
He approaches me with slow steps, and I swivel my head to the side, repulsed by the sheer thought of his touch. The low snarl coming from his lips conveys he’s not happy with my reaction, and after years of shunning him and cursing his existence, I seriously have to question his common sense. What did he expect? A thank you and a hug?
He tugs at the knot behind my back until the fabric slips from my face, making me shudder out a trembling breath. My instincts tell me to scream, but I know it’s no use. Luka doesn’t do things by halves. ‘No one can hear you out here,’ equals, ‘there’s no human soul close by for miles.’
Keeping his eyes on me, he tosses the moist rag onto the floor and grabs a glass of water along with an orange pill from the table behind him, bringing both back to my lips.
I eye the pill with disdain. “I don’t want that.”
“It’s for your headache. Harmless.”
“Stick it up your ass…”
Suddenly, my chin is in his brutal grip, and I yelp. Pushing back my head, he forces my mouth open, drops the pill onto my tongue, and makes me down half of the glass until I splutter it all over my face. Gathering the last gulp in my mouth, I spit it out, but only a few drops hit his arm.
He looks down in disappointment at where the spray has hit him before his flinty eyes travel back to me. “You will learn your place, in time.”
Please, God, give me the power to kill him with my lethal glare. I’ll even sell my soul to the devil to see him drop dead.
“And where’s that?” I ask when I can somewhat breathe again. “Let me guess… At your side?”
He nods. “Where you belong.”
My lips curl into a sneer. “I don’t belong to anyone.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong—”
A low buzz from behind me snaps his attention to the source, and he squints before he brushes past me. Craning my neck, I try to peek over my shoulder, but I can’t see shit from this angle other than what seems to be heavy equipment and high-tech machinery blinking in my periphery.
I jerk my head forward again, taking inventory of my surroundings and racking my brain about how to get the fuck out of my predicament. The headache pill works surprisingly fast, and I’m glad for the pounding in my skull fizzling to a light thrum at my temples, clearing my senses.
I peer down at my hands. Pink stripes of fabric that look as if they’d been cut from old curtains chain me to a pair of plush armrests—soft enough not to cut my skin but tight enough to keep me immobile. My feet are bound, too. The same material binds me to the seat in thicker stripes, wrapped around my rips. Alas, it’s not a brittle wooden chair that I could break into pieces like in the movies, but a wide wing chair with ergonomic, yellow upholstery that feels softer than a luxury bed. And it weighs about a ton, I realize when I wiggle my ass, testing if I had any chance of lifting the monstrosity.
With a curse, I swerve my gaze over the space. Gathering from the arch-patterned, ugly-as-fuck wallpaper from the forties, even uglier pottery sprouting from every surface, a heavy pendulum clock in the corner, and the musty scent of a nursing home, this seems to be an old mansion of a retiree who hopes to live the rest of their days in peaceful isolation.
Squinting, I try to make out the outside world through the window. Gray clouds, fat raindrops slashing against the glass, and high conifers swaying in the wind—nothing that could give me a clue of where the fuck my stalker has dragged me to.
And how the heck did that happen anyway?
Sharpening my focus, I try to put the story together. I remember stumbling out of the Crawford building in the middle of the night, right after slipping out of Nathan’s apartment to put the ring back in its place.
And suddenly, something cut off my air supply.
“Did you use Chloroform to knock me out?” I demand through clenched teeth when he ambles back to fold himself onto the sofa.
He scoffs. “This is not a Hollywood flick, Elenka. It would take five minutes minimum to render someone unconscious with trichloromethane.”
My lips press into a flat line. I feebly tug at the restraints, but it only hurts my wrists.
“It was a necessary evil, Elenka,” he says in a pained tone. “You know I would never hurt you.”
“You’ve done nothing but hurt me,” I hiss. “Every year, every day, every fucking minute since I made the worst mistake of my life and stepped into the damn pharmacy that day.”
He expels an audible breath through his nose, folding one leg over the other and tilting his head to regard me. His attitude has changed. He’s less fidgety, not as restless and impulsive. Composed even. He looks different, too. He’s still thin as a rail with a cutting jaw, hollow cheeks, and a deep dimple in his chin that looks to have been cut that way. But his ash-brown curls have been shaved to a buzzcut, brown contacts hide his pale eyes, and the mustache above his upper lip is new. He’s even wearing a suit, though a quite unfitting one, the cheap, coarse material hanging loosely over his non-existing muscles.
“My dearest Elenka,” he drawls, “you would be long dead without me.”
I do a double-take, forgetting my misery for a moment. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
He adopts a faraway look before he says, “I meant every word when I told you I’ve protected you. I’ve saved you from evil more times than you will ever know.”
Is he delirious?
My scoff causes him to prop his elbows on his knees, kneading his hands.
“That night you caught me in your bedroom,” he goes on in a lower tone, “I didn’t break in on purpose. No, but someone else did. If I hadn’t been there that night, you would have been the victim of a serial rapist who’d already killed twelve women.”
He pauses to let that sink in for a moment while I just gawk at him, shaking my head in denial.
“You say I’ve hurt you,” he says before he adds with a whispered hiss, “but I’ve saved you from pain far worse.”
“You’re… you’re lying.” But even as the words make their way over my lips, my mind slams back to that horrible night, and a slither of doubt nags at me.
I remember cowering in bed, with the TV switched on because I couldn’t stand the silence, weeping through the entire night until dawn broke. The news reported a murder in the early morning hours. A frozen corpse was found in the Siverskyi Donets River—the corpse of a serial rapist who was responsible for the death of a dozen, innocent women.
God, had Luka really played a part in all this?
Huffing, he drops his head. “I know it will take more than one confession to open your eyes and make you see who I truly am, to replace the fear poisoning your heart with trust, but—”
“Trust?” I cut in with a look of disbelief, tugging at my restraints to make my point. “Trust has to be earned, Luka, not forced.”
His lips pinch, and he straightens. “And I will earn it in time.”
I thrust out my chin, challenging him with a glare. “You can’t fix what’s already been broken. Many, many times.”
I know I’ve struck a chord when his eyes blaze up, flickering with undiluted fury. Sneering, he launches to his feet only to grab my headrest and snap into my face, “And yet, you’re running back to that arrogant prick every time despite him abusing your trust more times than I could have ever done.”
I cringe at his erratic outburst, backing away, but I don’t get far. Within the blink of an eye, all the pent-up frustration and ferocious jealousy snuffs out his carefully collected composure.
“You think he’s a saint, huh?” he snarls, sprays of spit hitting my face. “That Crawford bastard isn’t better than me. Do you know how long he’s been stalking you? That he even went as far as hiring a spy to keep tabs on you?”
I found out the hard way, yes, but something tells me I’d better let him finish his rant first.
“He claims his love for you but keeps his ex-wife close. He’s a cheater just like his devious father who rotted in jail for more than a deca
de. A father who”—he leans in, and I press my eyes shut as his lips brush my cheek—“just so happens to be yours, too.”
I shrink in my chair, making myself as small as possible. It’s only when Luka’s roiling heat dissipates, and he backs away to give me room that I dare to open my eyes again.
His cheeks are flushed, a red rash crawling up his protruding collarbones as he stands in front of me, panting and with his hands clenched into fists. He pins me with a deadly stare, gauging my reaction to the bomb he thinks he dropped.
Too late, asshole. The destruction is already done, and I’m still picking up the pieces.
His expression turns from anger to shock to full-blown disappointment. “You knew…” he mutters.
I send him a defiant look that makes him sag down onto the sofa.
“How can you still love him?” His voice is strained, ringing with disbelief and heartache. “How can you love your step-brother?”
“He’s adopted,” I mumble, more to ease my own mind, but he doesn’t listen anyway.
“How can you love the man that did this to me?” He turns his head, pointing to a red scar inside his ear—a deep gash that looks as if someone had drilled a hole with a pointy object into it. “Do you know what they did to me, those fucking Crawford boys and their scum of a father? They threatened to maim me!”
“Too bad they didn’t…”
Instead of the tantrum I’d expected him to throw at my malicious words, his features transform into stone before he turns around to fiddle with something on the table.
“Time, Elenka…” he drones with his back to me. “You need time, is all. Time to get Nathan Crawford out of your system.”
I scoff. “Like you got me out of yours?”
“Don’t be so naive. You don’t have the same connection to him as to me. I just need to cut all ties.”
His voice takes on a demonic, unyielding undertone that crawls like spiders underneath my skin. I swear there’s a sudden drop in temperature, stiffening the hairs on my nape. I don’t know what he’s planning, but I have the notion it’s more than just keeping me chained for a few hours until I can seize my chance and escape.
“You’re digging your own grave,” I say despite the hysteria bubbling up my throat. “Nathan will find me, and he will kill you for good this time.”
He heaves a sigh, turning around again with my phone in his hand.
“No, he won’t.” His tone is matter-of-fact. “I’ve been cautious this time, Elenka.”
That’s what I’d feared…
“Your gun is in my possession, your motorcycle is in bits and pieces, and your phone is untraceable. Calls still go through but arrive on my phone, of course.” He wriggles said object at me, clicking the lid on the backside shut and shoving it into the breast pocket of his wrinkled shirt as his lips curl into an evil smirk. “I’ve left no traces. No IP address, no footprint, not even a fucking hair. You didn’t think I would make my move without being absolutely sure my plan was bulletproof, did you?”
I snarl at him, rattling the chair with my frantic movements, but it doesn’t get me anywhere.
You should have seen this coming. You knew he would never disappear. You knew he’d get to you eventually.
He was smart, and I was just crap-ass dumb, blinded by love and the foolish hope of a new, better life with a man on my side who could protect me from all evil. And where did it get me? Into the middle of a cataclysmic family feud, a fatal identity crisis, and the hands of a delusional sociopath who sees me as a goddess of his pathetic little universe.
“And what’s that grand plan of yours?” I drone in a mocking tone.
Because if you think I won’t try and crack each of your fucking knuckles for good the moment you release me, you’re sorely mistaken.
A strained smile twitches his lips.
“Why, Elenka… to bring you back to where you belong.”
Back to where I belong?
Back to my roots.
Back to a life I’ve left behind me.
Back to… Russia.
23
Nathan
“I’m sorry, Mr. Crawford, but the lead went cold.”
The only thing cold is your dead body when I shove your taser into your mouth to shut you up for good.
I continue to stare out the narrow window of Zoya’s living room as the boys in blue feebly try to explain their incompetence to Vincent, letting my vacant gaze wander up to the sky while my right hand fumbles with the velvet box hidden inside my suit pocket. Not sure why I still bother to wear dress slacks and shirts. It’s not as if I’ve been able to work the last few days, let alone show up at the office.
The sky is a plain blue canvas, promising yet another sunny day. No clouds cracking with thunder. No shooting stars flying by. Nothing materializing up there that could give me a sign that today is the day.
The day I’m going to find her.
With one hand twiddling the velvet box inside my pocket, I use the other to drag the chain of my pendant along my lips. Twelve days have passed since Ella had vanished into thin air. Twelve days of choking on my heartbreak and battling nightmares so horrible, I’d played with the idea to ask the dude dawdling about fifth Ave for some coke or whatever the fuck might keep me from falling asleep.
I’d hoped to find salvation on the sixth day, counting on fate to have my back like all the years before. So, I’d roamed my apartment, the gallery, the streets, always on the lookout for a call, a message, a fucking sign, but it seems my lucky number has faded away along with my dragonfly girl.
There’s still hope. The day is still young, full of possibilities. Ella’s birthday… The sixth of June.
My phone buzzes in my other pocket, and I yank it out in a haste only to growl down at it the moment I scan the caller ID. Fuck your timing, Carl. I’ll deal with you and the little secret you failed to mention when I’m ready. Never, perhaps.
Declining the call, I turn around with a sigh where the argument between Vincent, Zoya, and the two incompetent cops is still in full swing. Holly is busy feeding Ella’s dragonflies, bustling about with bags of blood worms, while Zoya keeps repeating herself only to get the same answers every time.
“She can’t just disappear like that!” She throws her hands up in the air and slams them back down on the table, making the decorative bowls in the middle clatter. “There has to be a trace, a clue, one fucking bread crumb!”
The chubby cop with the red-dyed bob fidgets in her chair, looking helpless and utterly drained. “Mrs. Benson,” officer Scott addresses her, impatience ringing in her voice, “we’ve done everything to find your sister, but I fear we’re at a dead end. We tracked every email, but couldn’t find an IP address. We tracked her motorcycle, but without success. We tracked her phone, but had no luck there, either.” She sighs, slamming her notebook shut. “And there’s still no sign of Luka Sokolov or the other names he’s used so far—no insurances, no assets, no real estates. The guy is a ghost.”
I expel a frustrated breath, making my lips flap like a horse.
“And you needed two weeks to find that out?” I throw at her, not even trying to hide my annoyance. Wayde had all the shit she just listed printed out on my desk on the same day.
Officer Scott sends me a sympathetic look. “Mr. Crawford, the guy is a genius hacker and professional identity thief. The chances of—”
“We get it,” Vincent cuts in before she can repeat herself for the fifteenth time, chancing a warning glare at me.
“You know,” Zoya starts with a dark look at the two cops (and Vincent because their relationship was bound to get off to a bad start), “this wouldn’t have happened if you’d taken the threats my sister received seriously the first time you showed up at her doorstep.”
“That’s not—” Scott tosses in, going on the defense, but Zoya doesn’t let her finish.
“You didn’t believe her, and you didn’t do one fucking thing to try and find Luka Sokolov.”
And the
commotion continues with more insults and excuses flying around the room. I shake my head, scraping a hand through my hair. Fuck, if I could just reach out to James, but try and find someone whose sole job is to stay off the radar…
‘You want this guy dead, you take him out yourself.’
And I’d gladly take his advice to heart if I could just find that fucker. Because there’s no doubt that scum is behind Ella’s disappearance, no matter how many emails pop into my inbox, sent from her account, or how many messages I receive from her phone.
I’m sorry, but I had to leave…
I can’t be with a man who hunted me down, stopping at nothing to find me…
I will never be ready to meet my real father, a devious man who broke Mom’s heart…
I’ve put Zoya through the wringer. Squeezed every piece of information from her about the guy who’d haunted Ella until she had no choice but to leave her home country. He’s never left traces of his handwriting, so I bet every gem in my gallery that he made her write these. Besides, she wouldn’t just leave Zoya without a proper goodbye, at least not without a single phone call for two fucking weeks…
I flip the velvet box open in my pocket only to click it shut again. Once more, the alexandrite ring has left its throne in nook number six and is now safely tugged inside my hand. All these years I’d wished for it to reappear, to sit where it had been sitting since I was old enough to ask Daddy about the unusual gem embedded inside. Now, I don’t even dare to look at it without thinking about what I’ve lost.
My dragonfly girl.
My phone vibrating once more pulls me out of my reverie. I scoff. It’s Carl again. Wow, does he want to drive me nuts?
I’m already about to take the call when the other cop in the room—the one with the long face, conceited attitude, and a serious death wish—adds his two cents in the form of a blasé, “Did you ever consider that Elenka Jendarov left on her own will, after all?”
Muting Carl’s call, I let my phone disappear and slowly turn my head to the guy who’s about as likable as that scum of a stalker I plan on killing with my bare hands.
