by Lana Sky
He’s tall, the intruder, his face achingly familiar. Sevastyn. “Here you are,” he murmurs, leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed. “Maxi’s little toy. I have to say…you are beautiful.” His eyes flit over what little of my body isn’t covered by the sheet. “I’m sure he’s told you the opposite. Diminished his attraction to you, even. Maxi always was protective of his trinkets.” Standing to his full height, he takes a step closer and I instinctively inch back. “Don’t be shy,” he scolds, but his smile betrays his enjoyment. “He’s kept you busy, I see. I’m surprised he brought you here.” He glances around the room, his upper lip curled in disgust.
My pulse surges with every second I watch him. “What do you want?”
“Ah… So you are feisty.” He chuckles, roving his gaze up to my face. “I knew you were different the moment I saw you, you know. I’ve only seen him so open with his weakness once before. He’s always been a sentimental boy. With toys. With pets.”
His tone scratches over my skin, and I draw the sheet tighter around myself. Maxim isn’t here. I know that without even looking. Hoping.
“I said, what do you want?”
“Patience.” Sevastyn licks his lips and advances a step. He laughs when I flinch and advances another. “You should know exactly why I’m here. My dear nephew deserves nothing less. It’s business, my dear. Little Maximov must learn his place.” He bares his teeth in a chilling smirk. “I thought making problems for his little enterprise would be enough to get my message across. But it seems he’s more…distracted than I thought.” He shrugs. “To be honest, I always thought Maxi was much too repressed for a mouthy whore—”
“Get out!”
“Oh, I wish I had time to play with you.” He hones his gaze over my throat and I see a hint of the malice he and his nephew share—but it’s different in him. Sevastyn lets his darkness consume him, whereas Maxim fights it. “Alas, Maxi must be taught his lesson quickly. I won’t violate you,” he adds as my nails dig into the fabric of my sheets. “I prefer, let us say, a select breed.”
Bile claws up my throat as an image pops into my head, though I’m not sure why. It’s how he said that phrase. Select breed. Like a little boy with white-blond hair, aching for his mother. Until one horrible day when a monster made him fear showing any ounce of emotion at all.
“I must make my point, however.” His hand lashes out so fast that I only catch a flash of shadow before pain!
My vision goes black, and when it clears, I only know that I’m on the floor, tasting blood.
“So I apologize if things get…messy. It can’t be helped.” A heavy hand slams against my lower back, pinning me flat, while another hooks around to capture my throat. Grasping. Squeezing. As if from underwater, I hear Sevastyn murmur, “If you beg, I’ll make it quick—”
“No!” Kicking out with my feet is purely instinctual—but my heel connects with bone.
And the man just laughs.
“Oh, you would be so much fun,” he murmurs, loosening his grip enough for me to gulp in air. “I can see it now. Why he’s kept you like a dog with a bone. Look at me. Look at me.” He yanks my face in his direction.
I blink rapidly to clear my vision. Gradually, his face comes into focus.
“Oh yes. There it is.” He drags his thumb across my cheek. “That weak hint of desperation. Little Maxim couldn’t resist, could he? No.” He laughs, shaking his head. “No, I suppose he couldn’t. Why? He probably sees himself in you. A desperate, pathetic mutt accustomed to being used by others. Did he ever tell you?” he wonders, lowering his mouth near my ear. “How he became a cripple? I know you’ve seen them, his injuries… Yes,” he decides from my expression alone. “He did. But not all, I suspect. Just the little pieces he can live with. Maximov always was like that. Prone to biding his time like a scheming little mouse. He probably used vague, broad terms to describe it, but shall I tell you the whole truth?”
He shoves me aside and I barely manage to brace my hand against the wall to keep myself from crashing into it.
“His mother was an artist.” His nostrils flare as if the word is something filthy found stuck to the bottom of his shoe. “She taught him to paint and sculpt. I think he still does. She used to make him little trinkets. Toys.” He chuckles, reliving the memories of Maxim, young and innocent. “When she died, he kept one—carried it everywhere, despite how it annoyed Anatoli. A little stone cat, I think it was. He called it his ‘kotyonok.’ Until one day my father made him smash it using his bare hands. And then…” He looks at me, chuckling, and my stomach churns in grim anticipation. “He had him beaten, but it wasn’t enough. Not far enough. Not memorable enough. A boy like that, he needed a different kind of…” A twisted smile shapes his mouth as his tongue traces his bottom lip. “Touch.”
No. My mind shies away from what I think a part of me already suspected. I picture the day Maxim brought me to that empty room with the tarp. The pain in his eyes. How lost he looked. Afraid—I can apply that term to him only now.
Not for himself.
But for me.
I will kill you before they do it for me.
“Don’t be so surprised,” Sevastyn says, still standing above me. “I don’t think he even told Anatoli what—”
“You’re sick,” I croak. “You’re a monster.”
“I am,” he says.
My eyes catch the motion of his shoulder tensing—but it’s too late. I can’t even brace for the blow. Wham! Agony rips through my chest, knocking the air from my lungs. I cough, thrown to my knees, knowing he’s behind me.
“What a shame.” He crouches and grabs my wrist, rubbing his thumb along my palm. I wrench my arm back and his grip tightens as his gaze latches onto mine. “I’d hate to ruin you too much. You really are a prize. But every good lesson has some cost.”
He stands, dragging me with him to the bed. I claw at his grip with my free hand, but he lifts me like I weigh nothing and slams me onto the mattress. Like stone, his weight lands on my chest, pinning me down. Crushing me.
He hits me again, drawing a gasp from my throat.
Nails drawn, I swipe out. Flesh catches beneath my fingertips and I dig as deep as I can, breaking flesh.
Roaring, Sevastyn hits me again—hard. My head lolls as the nerves in my body lose contact with my brain. As my senses return, I find him swiping at his shoulder. His fingers come away red and he frowns, gritting his teeth.
“Feisty little bitch,” he snarls, gripping my throat. “He’ll throw you away after this, so you know,” he gloats as dark spots speckle my vision. Just a few at first. Then an inky coating obscures my sight. “So secretive our Maxi is. In fact, I suspect he’ll kill you before you can spill his little secret. But if he doesn’t…you can always come to me. I may make an exception…”
He releases my throat, but as I gulp for air, an unfamiliar touch traces my inner thigh. No! I buck, clawing at anything I can reach, but he’s too heavy. Immovable. Nononononono!
A sharp crack cuts the air before I feel the fire painting my cheek, the result of a slap. Another. My thoughts flood, impossible to decipher.
And all I feel is pain.
Chapter Sixteen
Hushed voices battle the darkness weighing me down. I’m somewhere enclosed, where everything echoes, way too loud. A room? My eyes won’t open. Trying to form a coherent thought is like trying to catch smoke.
I’m floating, but eventually, I can make sense of the words being spoken around me.
“She hemorrhaged,” a man says, his voice clinical and unfamiliar. “I doubt there’s organ damage, but—”
“When will she wake up?” another man interjects, his tone more strained than I’ve ever heard it sound. Maxim?
My heart pangs. Something is wrong. Really, really wrong—he’s never sounded so cold.
So empty.
“I’m not sure,” the first man replies. “All we can do is wait.”
“Can you hear me, kotyonok?” Sensation bleeds throu
gh my consciousness for the first time in what feels like an eternity: warm fingers gently parting my hair. “Open your eyes. Look at me.”
It’s not a request.
I try to obey. But each eyelid weighs a million pounds, impossible to move.
“Francesca.” Those creeping fingertips smooth over my forehead and travel down my cheeks. Pain flares in their wake, disrupting my thoughts like a flickering flame. “Look at me.”
It’s no use. There’s no connection between my brain and my mouth. I’m just a conscience tethered to an immovable body. Am I dead?
No. My heart wouldn’t be aching if I were.
“Look at me,” Maxim commands, but his touch fades away, leaving nothing behind but an empty chill. “Please…”
“She’s waking up!”
The high-pitched voice sounds out of place here, insanely loud. Peeling my eyes open takes too much energy. I have to do it in stages, taking in my surroundings via snippets at a time.
“Frankie?”
Something warm lands on my arm. A hand? I blink as a face comes into focus. Small. Round with bright, wide eyes.
“Can you hear me?” Ainsley asks. “Are you okay?”
“Get off of her, Ains!” someone scolds. Mikie. He comes from nowhere and picks up Ainsley by her waist. Then he sets her down in the corner of a spacious room. A hospital room, I think, going off the crisp, clinical smell.
“Where…” My voice is a stranger’s rasp. I lick my lips and swallow to strengthen it. “Where am I?”
Mikie glances at someone beyond my line of sight. “The hospital.”
“You had an accident,” Ainsley says and my stomach sinks. How much do they know?
My memories are a blur, but a few details stick out. Sevastyn. Pain.
“That old guy, Lucius, said they were going to sue the other driver,” Ray pipes in, coming into view, Ollie in tow. “What a dick—”
“Watch your mouth,” Mikie scolds.
“A car accident.” I taste the term on my tongue and cringe. So that’s the lie he came up with.
“We should let you get some sleep,” Mikie says. Like a general, he marshals the others to attention and they stream out one by one. “We’ll be back, Frankie. Just get some rest.”
My “accident” caused contusions over my entire body and left me unconscious for two days. Realizing that puts a million hazy memories into perspective.
The first being Sevastyn. Bits and pieces of that day flicker in and out of my thoughts like a horrifying slideshow. He hit me. Forced me onto the bed…
My brain refuses to show me anything after that.
Deep down, I don’t think he raped me. In some ways, his violation was far worse—he marked me. Brutalized me. Toyed with me.
All just to make a point.
And Maxim…
Was he really here or did I just imagine him?
Every minute he stays away, I start to settle on imagined. My only visitors in the next three days are the kids and the odd doctor or nurse. They discuss my care in vague, simplistic tones that give the rouse away. It’s out of my hands. Someone else is pulling the strings and paying the bill.
Yet he never comes by once. Instead, Lucius appears near the end of the third day, his briefcase in tow.
“Miss Marconi,” he says, inclining his head respectively. “Mr. Koslov wanted me to inform you that he is currently out of the country.” He pauses as if to let the words sink in one by one. “Any attempts to contact him may go unanswered for a period of time. Meanwhile, if you need anything, I will be able to assist.”
He waits as if expecting me to say something. Do something.
When I don’t, he inclines his head and leaves. His voice reaches back to me as I finally remember how to move. “Goodnight, Miss Marconi.”
A day later, I’m brought “home” with fanfare. The kids make a show of bringing me lunch in bed and fluffing my pillows.
But the first night passes in dreamlike slow motion.
And the next.
The next.
It’s as if the world continues: a boring-ass play, minus one key actor. He disguises his role in my new life, but his interference is painfully clear. Gemma comes to the house to continue my lessons and the bills are magically paid. A mysterious driver appears to chauffer the kids wherever they need to go.
And I’m still a prisoner.
But, as the hours pass, my captor can’t even visit my cell once. Days turn into weeks.
My body is a bruised, scabbing mess of flesh, yet…I don’t feel a damn thing. I can’t feel anything.
“Frankie?”
I look over my shoulder and find Daisy creeping through the doorway.
“You’ve been in here for hours,” she says, glancing around the wide, empty room. “You didn’t even eat lunch or dinner—”
“Oh, you’re talking to me again?” I snap, only to sigh when she flinches. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that—”
“You’ve been different,” Daisy says. Her eyes well up and she sniffs, swiping at her cheeks with the sleeve of her pink sweatshirt. “It’s like you’re another person. A zombie. I miss Mama—and I know you hate that,” she adds. “But I miss you more.”
“I’m still me,” I rasp, even as I scan my battered limbs without a hint of recognition. “I’m still the same Frankie.”
“You’re not.” Daisy shakes her head, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s shaking, sniffling harder as more tears paint her cheeks. “You barely leave the house. You stare into space all the time. Ainsley’s afraid of you. She thinks you’re dying—”
“I’m still here,” I insist. But my voice sounds so fucking weak. I don’t know if I’m trying to convince her or myself.
“I miss you,” Daisy says. “More than Mama. I miss you—so much. You were always strong, even though you cursed too much and worked too hard. I miss you.” She lunges, wrapping her arms around my neck, squeezing tight.
She’s a little kid again. The one I always had to spend extra time comforting after one of Melanie’s fuck-ups. The one so naïve that she never saw the trouble coming.
Or maybe she just pretended not to all this time.
“I’m sorry,” I croak into her hair as my stiff limbs cradle her awkwardly. “I’m sorry.”
“Just come back,” Daisy blubbers. “Come back. Be the old Frankie again. I can’t take this anymore.”
The old Frankie.
What was her motto? Anything to survive. Even if it meant scraping, and fighting, and stealing.
She would never let herself be thrown away.
She’d fight back.
How?
By beating the master at this own goddamn game.
Chapter Seventeen
“You’re on fire today!” Gemma exclaims as I hand over a sheet of test questions. She heads to her desk at the front of the classroom and fishes a red pen from a drawer. A few minutes later, she returns the test to me with a score scribbled in the corner: 80%. “You keep this up and you’ll have no trouble acing your preliminary finals. Then we can discuss options for majors. Have you thought of any?”
I shake my head. Resurrecting yourself requires baby steps. Waking up. Forcing yourself to breathe. Making yourself focus.
Relying on the relenting passing of time to tide you over, other than a steady pulse of pain. If I focus on that—just moving, and breathing, and living—there isn’t room for anything else.
“Well, I think you’ll have a great base to build on.” She crosses over to her desk. A pinging noise cuts the air, and it must come from her cell phone, because she fishes it from a drawer and eyes the screen. “Oh, my husband is such a nerd,” she says, smiling. “It’s our anniversary.”
Something in her tone cuts through that insistent chorus circling my brain—don’t think about him. Anything. Everything but him.
“Francesca? Are you all right?”
Crack.
I look up, meeting Gemma’s startled gaze, and I can’
t stop myself from asking, “What was he like with you? Maxim.”
Even the sound of his name makes her jump. Her fingers flutter to her throat and she reflexively clutches her cell phone like a child with a teddy bear. Her eyes dart in my direction before lowering to her phone. With a trembling finger, she traces the screen. “Terrifying.” She inhales raggedly and looks at me again. “He was terrifying.”
She’s not lying. Her face is ten shades paler than before and she wobbles to her chair, collapsing onto it. “I was a stupid, desperate kid. I didn’t know what to expect. He took one look at me and just… I felt cold.” She stares through me, years into the past. “I couldn’t go through with it, and he told me to leave. To be honest, I thought he might…I don’t know, hurt me or my family. When I received a letter in the mail, I nearly had a heart attack. But it was a check, no strings attached.”
For her education—I remember. Maxim Koslov may have trouble keeping the women he claims to crave, but he has no problem being strictly transactional.
“Are you okay?” Gemma stands and approaches me, placing her hand on my shoulder. “Is he… Is he hurting you?” She glances around the room, still clutching her neck. “Maybe we can—”
“I’m fine,” I say, rising to my feet. Her concern feels far too real. Earnest. Her wide eyes hone in on my bruises and I know the conclusions she jumps to. Abuse. Violence. From him.
Any sane person would think the same damn thing.
Maybe they’d have a point—though the only true damage Maxim Koslov has inflicted on me is on my psyche. My fucking soul.
“Frankie?” Gemma brushes her hand along my shoulder. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Y-yes.” Swallowing hard, I force myself to smile. “I really am fine. Thanks for everything.”
I leave her staring after me in a daze, but I don’t have any room left in my head to care. He warned me: I’m not worth fighting for. Dying for.
