But it’s her.
And again, for one moment, I’m transfixed.
She’s naked on the bed trying to hide herself. Of course, she’s naked. What did I think they’d be doing in here, playing cards? Her face is framed by long, white-blonde hair, her eyes shiny, bright and wide with terror.
“I fucking paid,” the man starts, forcing my attention away from her. Drawing it back to him. He’ll regret that in about one second because the rage inside me has become a living, breathing thing. The pulse a fire in my veins.
He’s finally got his flaccid dick back in his pants and is zipping them up.
“Petrov agreed I get to go first.”
“Is that right?” I ask, stepping toward the man who must be sixty. Fucking pervert. “Petrov’s not here, is he? But I’ll tell you what.” I cock my gun, step close enough the toes of my boots are touching the tips of his shoes. “You can go first. Straight to hell.” I raise the pistol just a little, just so it’s at the level of his dick, and pull the trigger.
He screams and so does she. She’s squirming away. She should.
“We gotta move,” Matthaeus says, touching his earpiece. “Soldiers are on their way.”
I drag my gaze from the pervert cupping the place his dick used to be and glance at her. Again, it’s like I’m struck. Paralyzed.
“Dante!” It’s Matthaeus.
I shake away the strange sensation and I see how his blood has splattered her face and hair like a stain. Like something foul on a clean thing. A pure thing. She’s wide-eyed, mouth open in a stunned O, holding a pillow up against herself to hide her nakedness.
I step closer to the man on the floor and set the bottom of my shoe over his bloody hands. I press. “How old are you?”
“What? Fuck. Fuck! It fucking hurts!” He sobs.
I crouch down, fist a handful of hair and tug to make him look at me. “How fucking old are you?”
“Sixty-two.”
“You’re old enough to be her fucking grandfather, bastard.”
“Petrov…he said…”
“Did you put your dick inside her?”
“What?”
“Did you put your wrinkled old dick inside her?”
He tries to shake his head. “No. No. I wanted to look... I… Petrov…”
I bring my gun to his gut and pull the trigger. I don’t want to hear another word from him.
A heavy hand falls on my shoulder. “Dante.”
I turn to look at Matthaeus, seeing her in my periphery when I do, feeling things I shouldn’t be fucking feeling, not here, not now.
“We have to move,” Matthaeus says urgently.
I step toward the girl but when she gets a glimpse of my face, she recoils. I stop, draw back into shadow. I should know better.
“Where are your clothes?” I ask, trying to soften my voice. It’s impossible. She’s terrified. I see it.
She points a trembling hand at a light green dress draped over the back of a chair. I grab it, hand it to her.
“Put it on. Hurry.”
She nods but is shaking too badly to actually get the dress on. From outside I hear the chopper.
“Sixty seconds before we have a dozen soldiers on us,” Matthaeus warns. “We’re cornered in here.”
I holster my weapon, take the dress from her, and pull it over her head. It’s baggy and long, a summer dress for a winter’s day. Without hesitating, I wrap an arm around her and hoist her over my shoulder. She lets out a yelp but we’re moving, Matthaeus and my men on my heels, out of the bedroom. We’re running to the door that will lead to the roof where the chopper is waiting.
Petrov’s soldiers are close. I hear their boots echo through the penthouse as I open the door and hand her to Matthaeus. He’ll get her on the chopper.
The door below opens, slamming against the wall as the last of my men get out. I see the first of Petrov’s soldiers and ignore Matthaeus’s shouts for me to get on the helicopter. I want to be sure my message gets to Petrov tonight. So, I shoot, taking out the first three before a bullet hits my arm. Searing pain slices through me. Memory takes me to a different place, a different time. I drop the door and just barely haul myself into the chopper as it lifts off, veering just out of range of their bullets.
2
Mara
He’s hurt. Blood is seeping through his fingers where he’s holding the wound on his arm.
One of the other men, the one who carried me into the chopper, tugs my seatbelt tight and clicks it into place, drawing my attention from the one with the scar like an X on his face. The one with the patch over his eye. He places a headset over my ears and reaches under the seat to take out a small box. A first aid kit. He hands the hurt one something to put over his bleeding arm.
There are six of us inside the chopper plus the one flying it. The soldiers are anxious, charged, there’s an energy about them, adrenaline high. I hear them talk about what happened through the headset. They laugh about this one’s face or how that one screamed. They smell of sweat and exhilaration. It’s almost palpable, the scent coming off of them. Intense. They clean off their rifles and put them into a black duffel bag. Even now, after so many years in captivity, it’s terrifying to see those killing machines.
I watch them but what I want to do is look at him. Because I feel him looking at me.
And I know him.
I sneak a glance. He’s leaning back so his face is mostly in shadow, but I see the shine of the eye without the patch. Bright green. I wonder what happened to the other one. I think how the color doesn’t fit him. He’s a hard man. A killer. But that color is like spring. Like promise.
“Don’t be scared,” he says, and my heart does exactly the opposite. Its already frantic pace picks up making it pound against my ribs. But I think it’s his voice that’s doing it. Not his words. Like a deep rumble vibrating inside me.
The chopper veers at an impossible angle and I gasp, gripping the edge of the seat as rain pelts the glass door. It’s picked up, coming down harder than it was. Below us is the black water of the Hudson River. And we’re flying too close to it.
“You’re safe,” the man with the patch says.
I shift my gaze up to his. Force myself to look at him as we near a low but wide building and prepare to touch down in the large, mostly empty parking lot.
I know him. Not his man’s face. His man’s body. But his eyes.
Eye.
And I feel it. The tug of something buried deep inside me. So deep it’s almost dead but not quite. Not yet.
The landing is bumpy. The men pile out, one of them hoisting the duffel bag over his shoulder like it weighs nothing. Soon it’s just him and me left inside the helicopter. I remain where I am, unsure of what to do. He’s still studying me like he can’t believe it’s me. He’s already undone his seatbelt and is taking off his headset. I take mine off too.
“Here,” he says, coming to sit beside me. When he reaches to undo my belt, his hand brushes my bare arm and I gasp. He draws it back. It’s like an electric shock. Something sparking and alive, a charge of pure electricity. He feels it too. I see it on his face.
It’s then I start to shiver, realizing how cold it is outside. How cold I am. I’m barefoot and wearing a summer dress in wintertime. I’m naked underneath.
I wrap my arms around myself. Petrov used to take care with me, in the beginning. He grew less and less careful as time wore on. When he found out the truth, found out Felix had betrayed him and made a fool of him, he stopped altogether. My clothes were taken away and I was moved out of my comfortable room to a different one. A small, dirty one.
Not that it bothered me so much. A prison is a prison whether you sleep on a feather bed or a dusty old mattress in a corner. But my new room was cold. Freezing. I can’t remember what warm feels like anymore.
I wonder where Petrov is now. If he knows what’s happened. I wonder if he’ll punish me for it when I’m returned to him. If I return on my own, maybe it will be less ba
d. If he doesn’t have to come after me. The time I ran before, he had to get me, and I still remember his punishment. Still remember how I couldn’t get out of bed for days after.
That brings me to another possibility. This could be a game. A trick of his. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“Hey,” the man says to get my attention.
I blink, his voice drawing me back to the present.
He touches my chin to lift my face to his and my breath catches when I fully look at him. It’s like his eye, it belongs in a different body. A young boy’s body. Not this man with the deep X at the center of his right cheek. This man whose face has been sewn together. This close I can almost make out each stitch across the angry-looking scars.
He turns his head so I can see the other side. The beautiful one. And he is beautiful. The eye without the patch darkens and he doesn’t quite look at me for a moment.
“You’re cold,” he says, voice different. Like he’s trying hard to soften it. He frees me of the seatbelt. “We’ll get inside. You can warm up.” He pulls his jacket off and drapes it over my shoulders.
It’s heavy and warm and I smell him on it. Something about the gesture makes me want to cry.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” When I don’t reply he tries again, voice louder. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
I draw back at his tone. He sounds angry.
He mutters a curse under his breath and shakes his head. “Okay, let’s go,” he says. He steps out of the chopper then turns to me. When I don’t move right away, he just reaches in and lifts me out like I weigh nothing. I grip his shoulders for balance. He’s big. Strong and solid. And for one instant, we remain like that, him staring up at me, me down at him, the blades of the chopper whipping my hair around.
He shifts my position so he’s cradling me against his chest. He ducks his head and carries me to a door that one of his men is holding open. He feels different than Petrov. Holds me differently.
The sound of the chopper’s blades fade as the door closes behind us and we’re moving up a staircase. It’s dark inside, the lamps barely lighting our way. The boots of the men ahead of us are loud against the metal stairs. But a few minutes later, once we’ve climbed another shorter set of stairs, we’re inside what looks like a large warehouse. The walls are unpainted brick, the exposed beams supporting the roof.
He sets me down. The cement floor is cold against my bare feet, although it’s not as cold as it is outside.
I back away a few steps and take it all in. Eye-patch man talks to one of the others but keeps watching me. There’s a kitchen against one wall. It’s all stainless steel, wood and brick. The table has six chairs around it and behind me is a living space with a few leather couches, a coffee table. Sitting on top is a bottle of whiskey and a half-full glass. A large television is mounted on the wall.
Someone starts some music. It’s loud, heavy metal. Not the classical Petrov always listened to. I like it.
Most of the walls don’t have windows, but the ones that do are made up of small panes framed inside steel that span from floor to ceiling. A hallway leads to half a dozen closed doors. I wonder what this place was. Not a home, or not meant to be.
I hear my name then and turn to find eye-patch man watching me but talking to someone on his phone. His eyebrows are furrowed, gaze intent on me. He nods at whatever the other person is saying.
One of the men laughs from the kitchen area and I look over to find them standing around the counter, drinking beers. They’re quick to adjust their expressions when they see me watching them. A moment later, eye-patch man disconnects the call, tucks the phone in his pocket and comes toward me.
I take a step back. Instinct. I’m always backing away from men.
He stops, puts his hands up, palms toward me. “I’m not going to hurt you, Mara.”
My heart thuds. He knows I’m Mara. Not Elizabeth.
“I knew you before,” he continues. “A long time ago. I used to bandage your knees when you cut them. Tie your shoelaces.”
I feel my forehead wrinkle as I listen to him.
“I’m Dante. Lizzie’s big brother.”
Dante? No. Dante is dead. They’re all dead. I know because I watched them die.
Is this a trick? A game of Petrov’s? His latest, cruelest punishment?
“Do you remember me?” he asks.
I don’t reply.
“Do you remember Lizzie?” He takes another step toward me, and I realize I’m shaking my head as I back up.
“You’re safe. I’m not going to hurt you, Mara.”
I shake it more frantically. “I’m not Mara,” I say, my voice no more than a hoarse whisper.
He stops when he hears me, smiles. “You understand me.”
Why wouldn’t I understand him?
I clear my throat so he can hear me. “I’m not Mara. I’m Elizabeth.”
There’s a shift in the energy of the room. “No, you’re not.” His voice grows hard like he’s angry. He must see my panic at this change because he takes a deep breath in and sounds calmer when he speaks. “Lizzie had green eyes like mine. And she didn’t have a star-shaped birthmark on the back of her shoulder.” He gestures to my right shoulder.
How does he know about my birthmark?
“It’s small. Probably smaller now. You’ve grown up,” he says, peering around as if to see it. “But if you know where to look, you can see it.” He sounds sad as he faces me once more. “And then there’s the fact that my sister died fifteen years ago.”
I shake my head hard as he blurs through the tears that fill my eyes. I know. I know she died. I watched her die. But this isn’t safe. I’m not safe if they know the truth.
“I’m not Mara,” I say again, looking at the door we came in through. It’s just beyond him. There’s even a red exit sign over it.
He walks toward me, and I scoot sideways. The men have stopped laughing, stopped talking. Someone turns the music off. The silence is abrupt and jarring. They’re watching us. I feel their eyes. And I’m not sure I’ll make it to the door. I hear the sound of a beer bottle being set on the table. It’s that quiet. But I don’t turn. I keep my eyes on the one in front of me. The one with the broken face.
“Let me take you to one of the bedrooms. You can rest.”
No. No way. I am not going into a bedroom. I’m not going where they can hurt me. Not without putting up a fight. Never again.
“You can have a hot bath. Lie down. I’ll get you some warmer clothes.” All the while as he speaks, I realize he’s coming closer, herding me farther and farther from the exit.
“Just let me go.” I try. I don’t know why. It hasn’t ever worked before.
He stops moving. “Sweetheart,” he says, looks at me like he feels sorry for me, and I hate that look. I hate their pity. Anyway, it’s not real. “Where would you go?” he asks.
My back is at the wall. I close my eyes, take a deep breath in, and press my fingernails into my palms. It hurts but it helps. Helps to make me strong. I remember Helga. She was a bitch. A horrible, sadistic bitch who got what she deserved. I remember Scarlett. Remember what she did. How she hit Helga with the lamp over and over again. How she killed her. Scarlett thought she could save us.
I need to be strong like her. I need to remember to be strong because they like it when you’re scared. Like it when you cry.
I straighten, open my eyes to look at him again. “Where would I go?” I ask.
He cocks his head to the side.
“Away from you,” I tell him, my voice sounding more determined than I feel.
He smiles again, nods like he’s proud of me and wipes the corner of his lip with his thumb. “I’m glad to hear you have some fight in you.”
I eye the knife he has in a holster on his belt. He’s still talking but I tune him out. I need to concentrate. I’ll get one chance. And when he takes a step closer, I lunge at him, surprising him, my fingers closing around the hilt as he catches my waist. He
laughs a little as he takes one step backward, so I don’t slam into his chest, his arms wrapping around me as if he wants to be sure I don’t fall.
That’s good. Because he doesn’t feel it when I slip the blade from its holster and bring it to his dick. If there’s one thing I know, its men become babies when their dicks are threatened and it’s the one sure way to get their attention.
From the kitchen comes the cocking of four pistols, but I don’t look away. I can’t risk it.
“Relax,” eye-patch man says but he’s not talking to me. He’s telling them. I can tell from the tone of his voice.
“Get away from me,” I hiss, keeping my voice low like they do when they really want to scare you.
He laughs as if that was funny. I think he’s crazy. He must be. His reaction is all wrong and for a moment, it confuses me. And that’s all he needs. One single moment.
He’s fast. Faster than Petrov. Faster than Felix. Faster than any of their soldiers. And before I know it, he has his big hand wrapped around my wrist and is pulling it away from his dick. I feel the pressure of his grip but he’s not hurting me. Or at least he’s trying not to.
“That’s sharp,” he says, expression hard but not angry. He squeezes my wrist enough to force my fingers to uncurl so he can take the dagger. He doesn’t look away once as he tucks it back into its holster and I feel myself deflate, feel my shoulders slump.
I’m too weak. I’ve always been too weak.
“Please let me go,” I say, feeling my lip quiver. “Please just let me go. I’ll go back. I won’t tell him where you are. I promise.”
His eyebrows furrow. “You think I’d let you go back to that bastard? Petrov and those others will never lay a hand on you again. I will tear them limb from limb before I let them near you,” he says, the disgust in his voice like sandpaper against my skin.
I try to pull my wrist free, but he won’t let go. I look at it, see how big he is. My wrist looks like a doll’s in his giant hand. It’s scarred too. But a line of red sliding down his arm catches my attention. He’s bleeding again.
Stolen: Dante’s Vow Page 2
