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She brings her hand closer and that’s when I see what she’s holding in them.
Sewing needles.
Each one is filed down so impossibly sharp that they seem almost invisible, were it not for the way they glimmer each time from the lightning.
My hand is yanked up before her, and I shake my head against the hands keeping me immobilized in bed.
A shriek bubbles from the depth my gut, but never make it past the hand clamped around my mouth. My heart hammers like a piston against my ribcage while tears fill my eyes in anticipation of the pain.
Panicking, I beg her with my eyes to not do this.
But there’s no stopping her now.
“Poor naïve little whore,” Alla whispers, her one good eye glinting in the night as she places the sharp tip of a needle in front of my finger. “Nobody is coming to save you.”
Then, she starts to push.
47
EMILY
MORNING
I hugmy knees to my chest, and pain stabs through me from my fingertips, to my palms, my arms, along my legs, and down to the soles of my feet. But I don’t dare let go.
After Alla left with her guards, I stayed awake, my heart racing with terror until the sun chased away the storm clouds at daybreak.
At first light, I held up my trembling hands and searched them for any signs of damage.
Alla was right.
Those needles left neither scars nor drew any drops of blood.
All except one.
At the end of my torture, Alla had one of her bodyguards bring out a single syringe. She expertly inserted it into my arm and drew out a full measure of blood. Smirking, she told me that she’ll have an answer for her questions soon enough.
Afterwards, she leaned down, and whispered in my ear that she’ll be back tonight to let me know the results.
I shudder against myself. I don’t think I can survive another night of this.
Especially if Iampregnant.
The door creaks open, and I look over with a start only to find Ivica entering with a plate of pancakes and tea. She looks away immediately when she sees me, and my heart hurts at how she’s ignoring me.
“Ivica …” My voice cracks. I just want to hear someone say something to me. Anything. “Ivica, please.”
She blinks harshly as she continues to avoid my gaze and lays the tray of food and tea on the table beside me. Then, wordlessly, she starts making her way back to the door.
“Stay,” I plead. “Please …”
Her hand stays at the doorknob for just a moment. For just a moment, I dare to imagine that she might stay—that she might turn around and ask me what is wrong.
But all she offers is a single lone sniffle, the frame of her body shaking as she grabs the doorknob.
“Stay!” Desperate, I reach for a familiar phrase that I’ve heard from Konstantin in Buric’s shop. “Eto moi prikaz!”
Whatever the phrase means, it achieves the effect I want. Her head rises, she turns around to face me, and my heart breaks when I see that her eyes are brimming with tears.
