by Lana Sky
Unconcerned, the stranger continues to touch me, sliding his fingers from the curve of my hip, down between my legs. Each pass is bolder. Faster.
“S-stop!” My hand forms a fist without permission from my brain. Rises from the mattress. Strikes his shoulder. “Please—”
“Your name.” The callous tone doesn’t match the lazy sweep of his fingers against my flesh. Once. Twice. Again.
On the next pass, he curls his fingertips, teasing my entrance. Only the ragged tip of a nail breaches the barrier of my curls—but I feel the invasion deeper than just in my skin. In my heart, jagged and unwelcome like a rusty nail being jammed into a fortress I thought impenetrable for so long.
“S-stop.” It’s more than a broken whisper now. “Stop. Please.”
His expression is unreadable, composed of fathomless eyes that watch me tremble without a shred of pity. Of mercy. “You want to end this, Little One?” he wonders, drawing his hand away. “Give me your name and all you know of Robert Winthorp.”
My name. I try to remember through the chaos flooding my brain. The stranger has to compete with phantoms from memories. Like sisters…like sisters…
I can’t find the answer in time. My punishment comes swiftly.
He presses more firmly with his finger, grazing flesh and nerves that shudder at the brazen display. Humiliation descends. My eyes burn. Tears gather, along with the knowledge that nothing I do can keep them from falling.
I can’t even scream.
CHAPTER 6
“G ive me your name, Little One. Say it, or I will make you scream—”
“Misha! We need to move. Now.” That voice…
Hope, the fragile thing, rises in my chest as I make out the figure who appears in the doorway, his face half in shadow. Vanya.
“Mischa,” he prods in a cautious tone directed at the man on top of me. “We need to go. Now.”
“Is that so?” Eyes narrowed, Mischa shoves me aside and backs off the bed. Something terrible unfolds across his face, but I sense that it isn’t all directed at Vanya—or even me. He stares down at his hands, flexing the fingers. Then he shakes his head and his expression is cold again. “And what could have happened so suddenly that we need to move base now?”
Vanya doesn’t shy away from meeting his gaze. If anything, his chin juts slightly into the air, almost as if echoing their previous standoff but in reverse. Are you challenging me?
“You told me you trust my judgment. My judgment is telling me not to trust that snake Xavier with our location for too long. Besides, it’s dark. The men are ready. This shithouse could crumble beneath us at any moment. I say we move now, to another safe house. Before it’s too late.”
“And her?” Mischa cocks his head toward me, his mouth tilted in a dangerous smirk that’s more snarl than grin.
Vanya shrugs. “We bring her with us. You can continue your questioning later. It doesn’t make sense to kill her now—”
“Oh?” Mischa reaches into his pocket and withdraws what I actually felt against my hip during his torture: a knife, thick at the base with a tapered tip. Light plays off the honed edges of the metal, stinging my eyes to the point where I have to blink. At that moment, he turns toward me, raising the blade. He’s nearly to the bed when Vanya takes just a step in his wake.
“We don’t have the time to hide her body—”
“Really?” Mischa wonders, chuckling when he doesn’t receive an answer. “Relax. I will let you keep your toy, Vanya,” he taunts, growling another hollow laugh. “You only need ask.”
“I…” Vanya shakes his head dismissively. “You can deal with her later. We need to move now.”
“Fine.” Mischa heads for the door, sheathing his blade. As he passes Vanya, he deliberately nudges the man’s shoulder with his, knocking him off balance. “Do what you wish, Ivan. But she is not Anna-Natalia—”
That name. It tugs on another memory. A name so beautiful that I strived to remember it, even though I only heard it uttered once, by a woman with a gentle, quivering voice years ago.
“I will question her later,” Mischa says, snapping my attention back to him. His eyes narrow. He noticed my reaction. “Until then, she’s your responsibility,” he adds, still speaking to Vanya. “Whatever she does, you do, Vanya.” He slips through the doorway and marches down the hall, but his voice reaches back to us, assaulting my fragile skin one last time. “I suggest you keep her in the cage.”
“Here.” Vanya approaches the bed and stoops to pick something up off the floor nearby. My robe. He hands it to me and averts his gaze while I hurry into it. “Stay close to me,” he warns as my cheeks flush. “We need to go—”
“Wait.” I reach for his arm without understanding why. He doesn’t shove me off, which gives me enough time to regain control of my throat. “Ellen… My name is Ellen.”
Confusion flickers across his face. Then he just nods. “Right. Let’s go.”
I stand and follow him into the hallway. The floor feels strangely slick beneath one foot. On top of that, I’m limping, subconsciously avoiding any pressure on my right heel. A quick glance down reveals blood coating the side of it. I must have stepped on the glass in the kitchen.
“We’ll get that fixed later,” Vanya says, noticing the blood as well. “Come.”
We return to the main room, where roughly five men are in the process of taking what little items remain and carrying them down the hall. It’s organized chaos with an air of routine underneath. These men are used to being on the move.
Vanya takes my wrist, pulling me along after him before I can wonder why. “Come.” He reaches the kitchen through a different hallway. There, a man exits through a rickety screen door and we follow him, leaving the house altogether.
It’s dark out. A blanket of stars coats an ebony night sky while a cold wind nips at the naked skin beneath my robe. Before us, an empty yard stretches for what seems like miles, closed in on either side by a wall of trees. It’s quiet here. Too quiet. Craning my neck, I realize there are no other houses nearby. Just wilderness and silence.
“Have you lost your mind?”
A firm body brushes mine from behind. Before I can turn, my eyes are covered by something warm. Flesh. A hand?
“Go,” my captor snarls—presumably at Vanya. I recognize his voice. Mischa. “I will keep her before you let her escape with enough intel to draw a fucking map for Winthorp.”
He drags me in a different direction, heedless of how I stumble as my sore heel is aggravated. I’m forced against him, a slave to the motions of his body, my vision obscured. We don’t go far, just paces from the house, over rugged terrain that crunches underfoot. Other footsteps catch my attention close by. Someone mutters something, but I can’t make the words out. The language isn’t English.
Suddenly, heat tickles my ear and the stench of vodka floods my nostrils.
“Get in,” Mischa snarls.
I have only enough sense to throw my hand out in front of me before he shoves me forward. My fingers catch the edge of something firm. Metal. It’s curved with space underneath for me to duck. My knees hit a ledge, which forces me to climb onto it. The seat of a vehicle, I think. The suspicion is proven correct when Mischa climbs in beside me, his bulk backing me against what must be the opposite door. Only now does he let me go, taking his hand off my face.
I’m not foolish enough to look up. Instead, I use stealth to discern our surroundings. Supple leather gives way beneath me—I was right. We’re in the back seat of a van. The windows are tinted, letting in little light, and only one man occupies the front seat: the driver. I can’t see his face, but he’s wearing the same faded fatigues the other men are.
“Drive,” Mischa tells him, tapping his fist against the window on his end. “Take up the rear. I’ll keep watch.”
He leans back against the seat, propping his arm along the headrest so that his reach extends beyond my neck. The tightness to his jaw betrays the otherwise casual motion. He’s done it for m
y benefit, to remind me just how quickly he could regain control should I run.
Aware of him watching, I place my hands on my lap and face ahead. My heel stings. There’s no doubt that I’ve tracked blood all over the floor of the vehicle. I do my best to keep the wound from contacting anything else, but the best way requires that I cross my legs with the injured heel dangling in the air. The motion puts my foot in his domain, close enough to his knee that I’ll brush it with one good bump in the road.
Which is worse?
“Do not think that Vanya’s pity can save you,” Mischa says as if to warn me from even an accidental touch. “I have humored him this long. Besides, it’s not you in particular that he cares for. He does it out of grief.”
I can’t help but wonder if he said that more to himself than to me. When my gaze flickers in his direction, I find him frowning and my heart beats faster in foreboding. A man like him secretes anger like sweat. It slicks his skin and floods the car, drowning me beneath the scent.
Suffocating me.
“You haven’t asked why,” he remarks after seconds pass in silence. Something battles with the malice in his tone, catching me off guard. Approval? “Perhaps your master trained you, after all.”
I shudder at the mention of Robert. My master? He has a different word for it. I am only allowed to call him one thing, apart from his name. My thoughts shy from recalling it and I turn to the window, desperate to piece together the scenery.
Breathe, Ellen…
A hand seizes my jaw before I can make out anything more than shadow, wrenching me around to face the man beside me.
“You remind him of his daughter,” he tells me. His gaze traps mine, probing deeply without mercy. He sees the way I flinch and interest flickers across his otherwise callous expression. “She was murdered years ago. Butchered. I think you know by who—”
“Sir?” the driver calls as he wrenches on the wheel. Too fast.
The sudden shift throws me in Mischa’s direction. In disgust, he shoves me off, twisting around to gaze from the back windshield. Whatever he sees makes his face fall flat.
“Shit. Get down!”
There’s an eerie moment when all I hear is the roar of an engine. My gaze meets a pair of amber irises staring back, and for the first time, something other than hate is reflected in them.
Fear.
“Get down!”
Wham! Everything happens too quickly to decipher. Clanging noise. Shattering glass. Darkness. Pain.
A thunderous roar rattles through my being, and then…slam! Air wheezes from my chest—I’m being crushed. Whatever it is pins me into the sliver of space between the front and back seats. Metal?
No…a body.
A guttural voice snarls something into my ear, but only snippets register. “Down—stay down!”
Sharp noises cut the air. Gunshots. They echo in tandem. At least twenty right after the other.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
Then nothing.
“Vlad?” Misha shouts through the resounding quiet.
A groan comes from the front seat. “I…I’m alright.”
“Good. Then drive!” Crouched beside me, Mischa rummages through his pocket, withdrawing something that he aims in the air. “I’ll cover you.”
Predatory. That’s the only way to describe how he maneuvers swiftly into the seat, aiming at something unseen through the window. The shattered window.
Glass speckles the seat, glimmering in my hair and over the satin of my robe. Did we hit something? In the darkness, I make out the edge of what seems to be a dirt road. The windshield is cracked, but branches extend beyond it, casting shadows over the hood. A tree—we must have run into it.
When the driver tries to reverse, the engine squeals and then dies.
“Shit.” Keeping low, Mischa nudges the door beside me open. Before I can even think to escape, his fingers clench my shoulder. “Move without my say so and I’ll kill you.” A cold, round object taps the side of my skull as a deadly reinforcement. “Go.”
With him on my heels, I climb from the wreckage.
It quickly becomes apparent that we aren’t alone. Three other vans are stalled up ahead. Each one sits askew, as if their drivers had to slam on the brakes to stop suddenly. Men exit them. When they see Mischa, one of them shouts words I can’t discern.
Then…gunshots.
“Get down!”
I’m shoved to the earth and crushed once again. This time, I can hear the breathing of the man on top of me. It’s steady despite the tumult of noise happening around us. More people shout. More gunshots ring out.
“Get up!”
The pressure lifts from off me, and I barely manage to suck in a breath before I’m being dragged into the shadows that line the roads. Grass prickles my feet. Shadows flicker in the darkness. Near. Far.
Another gunshot rings out, way too close for comfort.
And then a man appears from behind a tree up ahead. He’s armed, pointing a gun squarely in my direction. His clothes stick out to me as fear grips my lungs—he’s not wearing fatigues. Instead, a crisp suit clashes with the wilderness around us. His gun isn’t large and bulky either but sleek. A pistol. His face…
I know it—the hazy kind of recognition that comes only from a glance.
And he knows me.
His eyes widen. Quickly, his free hand goes to his ear. “She’s alive. I found her! She—”
Thunder roars nearby, deafening me as blood flies from the man’s head. He falls and my brain belatedly names the reason why. He’s dead.
“Move.”
The grip on my arm turns brutal, crunching bone and twisting flesh. Changing direction, Mischa steers me to the road, keeping his gun at the ready. From the acrid smell tickling my nostrils, I know he is the one who shot the other man. If any more enemies are lurking nearby, they must have been dispatched. Only his men remain, their weapons drawn…
Or their bodies lying prone and lifeless.
“Fuck.” Mischa spits on the ground, his face drawn tight. When we come close enough, he shoves me toward someone, and the man catches me, gripping my shoulders. “Go. Get her to the safe house.”
The way he said it… My body trembles at the unspoken warning. He saw it too. He heard it. Those were not generic mercenaries.
“Go!”
My new captor steers me toward an open van and hastens in after me. Vanya. His face is drawn tight, and I stiffen when he reaches over me.
“Your seat belt,” he prompts, shoving the bit of metal into my hand and nodding toward the base. “Put it on.”
I obey and the van lurches into motion, presumably heading toward even more danger.
CHAPTER 7
Whether by accident or intent, Vanya doesn’t cover my eyes, and I’m allowed to witness the entire trip through winding fields and hills. It’s desolate here, somewhere in the countryside, far from the airport. The thought makes my stomach clench in a way that has nothing to do with fear. Just pain. Just guilt.
As Mischa claimed, I was just a decoy. Though, assuming she was aware of the switch, would Briar fare any better in my situation? Sweet, playful Briar who couldn’t even go five minutes without a friend to chat with or sycophants to entertain. I’ve seen her charm Robert Sr. in his foulest of moods, always getting her way. Could she enthrall this murderer with hell in his eyes and a million scars written upon his skin?
I have no shame in admitting that, yes, she probably could. Men always fell for Briar. Fought for her. Fought over her.
But there is one man who will fight for you, a part of me hisses. Whether you want him to or not.
Robert.
I cringe from the thought and turn to the window, desperate for a distraction. I find one. Hell stares back at me. Dark eyes meet mine coldly through the glass as the door is unceremoniously opened. He doesn’t reach for my hand, but my hair, wrenching me out by my scalp. Through watering eyes, I can only assume we’ve arrived at the
“safe house” by the gravel at my feet and the shadow of a building ahead.
The air here reeks of copper. There’s little light to see by, and inside the structure, cold floors betray a sense of abandonment. I’m not sure how far we’ve traveled before he releases me so suddenly that I fall to my knees. A ratty, threadbare carpet beneath me coughs up dust with every movement made upon it. Only one other person occupies this room, pacing the length of the floor.
“Who are you?” His voice is low, but it somehow still manages to echo to the far reaches of the room.
A single light fixture illuminates the narrow space: another decaying cage of wood coated with brown wallpaper this time. The windows here aren’t boarded up. Blurred glass displays my reflection: wide-eyed and trembling.
Who am I? I’m not sure the woman staring back at me even knows.
“Those were Winthorp’s men,” the man in front of me continues. “You are not Briar.” He tosses me a calculating glance as if to make sure of that fact. “So who are you? Robert only has two children.”
I can see him trying to put the pieces together on his own. When he looks at me again, his eyebrow is raised, but he shakes his head as if to cut off his own thought. Not a Winthorp by blood. So who?
“What is your name?”
“Ellen.” The voice isn’t mine, and I turn to find Vanya standing in the doorway. There’s blood on his chin. His? Or someone else’s, smeared there during the attack? “Her name is Ellen,” he says again, the words rushed. “She—”
“Leave us,” Mischa says sharply. He jerks his chin in dismissal but Vanya remains.
“Mischa.” There’s a plea tucked into the name this time. Something emphatic, more than just concern for me. Don’t do this. “She’s just a woman—”
“A woman who nearly got us all killed.” Mischa reaches into his pocket and withdraws his knife, letting the blade catch the light. “I told you to leave us once, Ivan. Do not make me tell you twice.”
