by Tillie Cole
The male had held out his little finger, and I had linked mine within his. I promise, I had replied. Then everything went dark.
I blinked away the dream. Addressing 901, I said, “A male I dream of spoke to me in this language. He told me he would come for me. He told me he would free me.” A surge of emotion welled within me. I held up my little finger and I choked out, “He held my finger and made me promise.”
“Who was he?” 901 rasped.
“I don’t know.” I tapped my head. “I see him in my dreams, but I don’t know who he is.”
901 was silent for several minutes as he stared at the wall beside me, lost in his thoughts. I sat back, tucking myself in the corner of the cell, trying my hardest to remember something, anything. But nothing came.
“It’s a country,” 901 said, breaking through my silence.
I looked up at him. His eyes remained straight forward. “What?”
901 blinked, then faced me. “Russia. It’s a country. We are in Georgia. He pounded his fist over his heart again. “Russia is my home. I am Russian.” He spoke the words almost like he was trying to convince himself about what he was saying …
As if he was also trying to make himself remember.
My stomach flipped, a mixture of sympathy and excitement. 901 then held out his finger. Pointing to me, he said, “You are Russian, too. The way you speak the words … it is not learned. It comes from your heart.”
Leaning forward, I asked, “What is it like?” I glanced around the cell. Thinking of the Blood Pit, I wondered out loud, “Is it like the Blood Pit?”
901 frowned and shook his head. He regarded me strangely. “No, it’s a country. The Blood Pit, here, is a place. A place Master created.” He gritted his teeth and hissed, “This is hell.”
I flinched at the harsh tone of his voice. I lowered my eyes and admitted, “I don’t know what you mean. I don’t know about anything outside of these walls.” I tapped my head. Catching 901’s attention, I added, “In my head, I see some things not of this pit.” I licked my bottom lip and continued. “I hid under a bed, the room was cold … but they found us.” Tears filled my eyes. I could feel the sadness and fear I felt at that moment like it had just happened yesterday.
“Who found you?”
My stomach dropped and my face paled. “The Wraiths. They came and took us.” Letting a teardrop fall, I added, “And I waved. I waved to a boy who tried to get me to stay with him.” Taking a much-needed deep breath, I asked, “Was that Russia? The place where the Wraiths came? Was that in Russia?”
“Yes,” 901 replied. I watched the thick muscles in his neck and shoulders tense, and he confessed, “I was taken by the Wraiths, too. From Russia.”
My heart pounded so hard I heard its pulse in my ears. “You were like me,” I confirmed, and shuffled closer still. “And I was like you.”
901 stared at me. He didn’t respond. He didn’t utter a single word. He simply stared until he reached for a chunk of bread on his plate and handed it to me. I took it and sat back against the wall.
We ate in silence. I watched him as we did. 901 didn’t look my way. When the growling in my stomach stopped, I leaned back against the wall and asked, “You don’t want me with you, in here, do you?”
901 froze. I waited for several seconds before he shook his head and answered, “No.”
I felt my heart deflate at his honest reply.
“Females make the warriors in this pit weak. I don’t want to be weak, and I don’t want to fuck you. I don’t want anyone. I don’t need anyone.”
I wasn’t a pleasant gift to him, like Maya had told me the monebi were to other warriors. I was nothing but a nuisance.
I didn’t know why, but a slice of pain cut through me at this stark rejection. Sighing deeply, I shuffled back to my corner and meekly said, “I understand.”
901 remained unmoving until the chiri came to take away his food. I closed my eyes, praying for sleep to hurry and take me … when I heard the soft hiss of the bracelet, and then I felt the searing pain of the drugs injecting me.
I stifled a cry as the drugs shot through my blood like a flow of flames. It took only a minute for my thighs to clench together and my core to pulse in need.
“No!” I heard 901 bite out.
Opening my eyes, still able to speak through the drugs, I said, “Don’t.” 901 had jumped to his feet. At my words, he stilled. As a wave of blistering heat poured through me, crashing at the apex of my thighs, I met his furious gaze and commanded, “Don’t.” I gritted my teeth when my stomach cramped. “Just leave me.”
901’s head whipped back in shock. “You’ll die.” I saw his hands ball into fists at his sides. A moan escaped my mouth as I slid down the wall, placing my hand between my legs. 901’s chest moved up and down, the sign of his ragged breathing. I could see his length hardening under the thin fabric of his black pants. My need was causing him to react.
He cursed, then took a reluctant step forward. “No! Stop!” I shouted. He did.
“You’ll die!” he snarled, sounding angry this time.
Even as the pain, the unbearable need, built within me, I managed to demand, “Then let me die.”
I saw the impact my words had on the warrior. He staggered back, my response seeming like a physical blow.
Recovering quickly, he moved to my side, his expression determined and stern. “I won’t let you die.”
A bead of sweat dropped off my head as he glared at me. My heart sank when I realized he meant every word. But I wanted to. I wanted to let go. Then, as 901 hovered close by, I also heard the scarred male from my dreams telling me to hold on. I felt my little finger twitch, as if I could still feel his finger wrapped in mine.
I squeezed my eyes shut as a bolt of pain forced my back to arch. Panting, breathless, I opened my eyes and pointed to the cell door. 901 followed my finger and asked, “What?”
“Guard…” I rasped. “Get the guard to take me.”
This time, 901’s gaze wasn’t hard or stern, it was positively savage. “You want a guard over me?”
Unable to keep fighting, my body sagged on the floor and I said, “I don’t want you to take me … because…” I hissed as my channel contracted, then forced myself to add, “you don’t want me. You don’t want this … I couldn’t stand to be the one who took away your choice.”
I stretched my body, trying to fight off the cramp seizing my limbs. My vision became blurry as the drugs built and built, making it almost impossible to endure. 901’s expression became engulfed with pain. As quickly as it came, it disappeared. As I pressed my fingers to my core, 901 kneeled beside me, his blue eyes beaming down, directly at mine.
I watched as his breathing increased. I watched as his hands hooked onto the waistband of his pants and pulled the fabric down. I shifted as his hard length came into view and he stroked it with his hand. My legs opened as he began crawling over me. His huge chest covered mine, his arms bracing on either side of my head as he lay at my entrance.
I shook my head, feeling the cold floor beneath me. But 901 leaned down, and in a familiar tender move, brushed back the sweaty strand of hair from my forehead. I paused, the pain momentarily forgotten as he watched me. A small blush covered his stubbled cheeks as he studied my face. In this moment, an unfamiliar feeling sprouted in my heart. This feeling caused me to raise my hand and place it on his cheek. 901 gasped at my touch, his lips parting at the feel.
And we stayed that way, paused in time, locked in the moment, just his gaze trapped in mine.
As another wave hit me, 901 began pushing inside me, quickly extinguishing the brunt of the pain. I gripped his heavy arms as a loud needy cry spilled from my lips. Sliding his hand from my head to my chin, 901 made me look into his eyes as he said, “I do want you, krasivaya. I won’t let you die. I’ll take you, but I just can’t let you have me … it’ll make me weak.”
Beautiful, my mind translated. 901 had called me beautiful.
I moaned as he slam
med into me, his thrusts soothing my pain. As I lost my mind to the drugs, krasivaya, krasivaya, krasivaya … circled my head.
Beautiful, he had said. Krasivaya.
901 thought me beautiful.
And he had told me so in Russian.
In the language of our hearts.
The language of our home.
I smiled as his chest brushed against my breasts. I smiled as I looped my arms around his strong neck. Because I also thought this deadly warrior was beautiful.
He was simply … more.
8
LUKA
“Again!” Valentin demanded as I circled him in the ring. I stretched my fingers, then formed them back into fists. I watched as Valentin jumped to his feet, a trickle of blood running down his chin from his lip.
I charged, slamming my fist into his face. Valentin’s head whipped back, but recovering quickly, he shook off the blow and delivered a hook shot to my ribs. My breath was taken away, but before he could gain advantage, I swept his ankle and dropped him to the ground.
I saw Zaal pacing the ring, desperate for his chance to spar. But when Valentin flipped me onto my back, I quickly focused on the task at hand. Valentin’s hands wrapped around my neck, his scarred face hovering close as his eyes shone brightly with bloodlust.
Lifting my hands to wrap around his neck, I squeezed hard, each of us robbing the other of breath. I could feel my face reddening under Valentin’s grip, but he was faring no better than I was. Our bodies were screaming for air.
“Enough!” Zaal called, his hand slapping on the floor, but I stared into the eyes of this killer trying to take my life. I could see in his blue eyes that he wouldn’t give up. Lifting my leg, I kicked out, unbalancing the male sitting above me. Rolling over, I straddled his waist, knocking his hands off my neck. My grip slipped from his neck. Zaal then pulled me from Valentin as he roared and went to strike again.
I panted, muscles braced to react as Valentin paced the floor of the ring, his deadly gaze slicing over Zaal to mine. I pushed off Zaal and rushed to Valentin, standing toe-to-toe with the psychotic male.
“I want to kill you,” he snarled, then pushed me back.
I moved back directly in his path and ordered, “Resist it.”
Valentin’s balled fist smacked at the side of his head. He growled low and said, “I need to kill you!” His fingers dragged down to circle the collar scar marring his neck.
“Resist it,” I ordered again, and watched the newest member of our Bratva war with the monster living inside.
“No,” he replied, abruptly standing still, every packed muscle in his huge body tensed and shaking as he tried to restrain his rage. “I want to kill!” he bellowed.
Zaal moved beside me, crossing his arms over his chest. His black hair hung down over his chest, dripping with sweat. “Fight it,” he ordered, too. Valentin’s stare almost eviscerated him on the spot.
“I’m a killer!” he hissed, his neck cording at the effort it was taking not to kill us where we stood. “I fucking kill!”
This time neither Zaal nor I spoke. If Valentin was to stand with us as a future Bratva king, if he was to stay and build our brotherhood to be unrivaled and feared, he had to learn how to conquer his conditioned instinct to strike.
Zaal stepped closer and Valentin bared his teeth. “For Zoya,” he said. The words immediately had an impact on our brother. Valentin stilled. He held Zaal’s gaze and Zaal held his.
As the minutes passed, the rage within Valentin reduced to a simmer. That was as low as it got for the scarred Russian. He was always angry, always filled with pain.
The three of us stood there silently, until I said, “To be a fighter, you have to know when to contain your rage. You must use it to fuel your need to kill but hold it back enough to not let it blind you.”
“I’m not a fighter,” Valentin bit out. “I’m a fucking torturer. I’m an assassin. I don’t dance in a ring for entertainment. I extract pain slowly, until they scream.”
Zaal stepped back. I knew it was to distance himself from the male that held his sister’s heart. The male that, before he loved her, had tortured her. Had exacted the pain he talked of so excitedly.
Valentin’s chest worked up and down as he tried to gain control. I had turned to speak to Zaal when Viktor came running through the back door of the Dungeon.
He rapped his hand on the office door as he passed. My father and Kirill walked out from doing business and moved toward us in the training ring. Viktor stopped and tried to catch his breath.
“What?” Kirill asked, adjusting the cuff links on his shirt. His eyes moved to Valentin, and I saw the flash of pride he had for our new brother. Valentin was a monster from your nightmares. And now he was a potential Red King of the Bratva. My father-in-law couldn’t wait for the day he could introduce the new Bratva/Kostava circle to the other crime bosses of New York.
He knew exactly what seeing the three of us would inspire—pure fear.
Viktor inhaled deep, and, looking me dead in the eye, said, “I know how we get you into the pit.”
The moment his words reached my ears, my heart started thundering in my chest. “How?” I pushed. Zaal came to stand at my right; Valentin, also eager to hear my old trainer, stood at my left.
Viktor looked at the three of us and explained. “I’ve just heard from my contact in Georgia that Arziani is holding a death-match tournament in the Blood Pit. He holds regular matches, but he has a group of champions that cannot be defeated. The investors, the crime bosses that go there regularly to gamble and pit their fighters against his, were becoming frustrated with Arziani’s men never losing. To prove Arziani doesn’t rig his matches, he is giving other gulags he’s invested in, and bosses outside his network, a chance to pit fighters against his men and the others entered. It’s an ultimate tournament.” He looked to Kirill and Ivan, then said with emphasis, “Big stakes. The money to be won is in the tens of millions.”
“But how do we get in?” I asked, confused.
Viktor glanced nervously to my father, then to the Pakhan. My father frowned, but answering my question said, “Each gulag can enter up to three of its champions to fight in the tournament.” He swallowed. “I was contacted by an old colleague to ask if I had any fighters I wanted to enter.”
Pure adrenaline surged through my body. I stepped forward, my fingers twitching, and asked, “And you said ‘yes,’ yes?”
Viktor slowly nodded. “Yes, but better still”—he paused—“my contact, him and his three brothers work for Arziani. His brothers are guards in the pit.”
Valentin began rocking beside me and hissed, “Wraiths.”
Viktor paled but shook his head. “No. They were taken and made to work there to repay their father’s gambling debts. Just as I was.” Viktor faced me again. “Only Abel was repaying the debt as a driver, like me. He has told me that because he couldn’t pay the money back in time, they took his brothers, too. They made them Wraiths and made Abel move to their officer ranks.” Excitement flared in Viktor’s eyes. “They all hate Master Arziani and want out. I’m sure they can help us once we’re inside, if we make it worth their while.” Viktor paused, then flicking a frustrated look to Valentin, he added, “Not all of the guards are there because they believe in Arziani’s cause. In fact, Abel told me he believes a good thirty percent or more are there to repay gambling debts—their own or someone in their family’s.”
“So that’s our way in?” I queried, and crossed my arms over my chest. “We go in as fighters.” I glanced behind me to Valentin and Zaal. “We fight in the tournament and find a way to kill Arziani from inside?”
“We can’t get in any other way,” Viktor said. Valentin walked beside me; a new energy seemed to be running through his veins. “He’s right. We won’t get in the pit ourselves.” He glanced to me, and I could see his need for blood shining back at me. “But we can fight. We can go in as gulag warriors.”
“You’re not a fighter,” Zaal said from beh
ind. When I glanced back, Zaal was frowning. He was glaring at Valentin. Valentin was seething on the spot as he glared right back.
“I can fucking fight,” Valentin snapped.
Zaal stepped forward and pointed at me. “Luka was the champion of his gulag. I fought as a prototype of Jakhua. We are fighters like those in the pit. We were raised to do nothing else. You were raised to torture and kill. You are different. You’re not a death-match fighter.”
Valentin’s lips rolled back from his teeth as he squared up to Zaal. “I can kill in more inventive ways than you, Kostava. I can kill you in ways you can’t even imagine.” He looked to me and said, “I’m going.”
“He’ll be a liability,” Zaal argued, as Valentin practically radiated death on the spot.
“That’s my sister in there! She’s that dick’s whore, and you expect to go without me? Not happening.”
“He knows you,” I said, then looked to Zaal. “He knows you, too.”
They both looked to each other, then at me. “I’m going,” they said in unison. I exhaled deeply.
Facing Viktor, I stated, “He doesn’t know me. No one in that pit will know me. My gulag was in Alaska. From what we can tell, once it was emptied when I escaped, it never reopened. I’m the one they don’t know.”
“Luka,” my father spoke. I turned toward him. His face was red with frustration. I knew why. He didn’t want me to go.
Viktor stepped forward. “We need to submit three fighters or none at all, Luka.” He waved his hand in Zaal and Valentin’s direction. “I’ve thought of how to get them in.”
“How?” Zaal asked.
Shrugging, Viktor said, “We enter under a fake name. Not the Volkov or Tolstoi dungeon, but a decoy. Abel and his brothers will ensure we get on the list without being checked.” He explained, “We can say that our men bought these two from the males that used to guard them. Zaal from one of Jakhua’s and Valentin from the Mistress.”
“The Mistress was his sister,” I argued. “He’ll kill Valentin the minute he sees him.”
“I’m going!” Valentin thundered. I held out my hand for him to be quiet. He silenced, but his lips curled in annoyance.
