Page 38 of Nemesis

When I was twelve, my first year living in the training facilities, my roommate’s parents bought her a shiny new phone, and she tossed me her old one without a care in the world. In exchange, I spent every Sunday morning teaching her the solos she couldn’t hack from variations class. It was an easy price to pay, since I was already spending every waking hour of the weekend practicing in the studios. It’s not like I had anywhere else to go.

Ever since that day, I’ve rarely spent a single moment in quiet contemplation without a backdrop of music to distract me from the worst thoughts. One week ago, I wouldn’t even have taken a ten-minute shower without something to break up the cloying silence. I’ve always known my mind wasn’t a safe place to dwell.

Perhaps that’s why I’m sitting here, counting the seconds until Vas will return to my side and open his mouth. It doesn’t matter what he says, so much as the fact that he chases away that low buzzing that starts up in the silence.

He’s been much more open since my face got cut up like a slab at the butcher. For the hysterical price of my useless blood, he’s told me all about his previous stints in captivity with soft whispers, narrating every daring escape and lucky break like he’s reciting some ancient war ballad passed down from years of wisdom and valor. A chance attack the moment his captors turned their backs. Breaking his thumb to wriggle free from a loose restraint.

He says the best opportunities arise during periods of transition. Unfortunately, they always take care to separate us during transitions.

When the rhythmic breathing comes to a halt, I look up. Sweat gleams down angry wounds as he climbs out of the plank, rising to his full height. His head tilts. I hear his words in the subtle gesture.

You should rest, moya zlaya.

He still hasn’t told me what the nickname means. If he truly won’t tell me until we’re free, I may never know. Still, the curves of the two words in my head loosen some wound-up spring inside.

“Done?” I ask, enjoying the sight of sweat sliding down his abs, despite the red tears of skin. I hope the injuries don’t get infected.

A soft nod.

“Come back and hold me,” I whisper.

I try to bury the desperation in my voice, but it makes the request sound more like a command.

He doesn’t take offense, thankfully, cutting a direct line to my side. Then he lifts me up and slides behind, settling my body between the safe confines of his own. No assholic comments or mindless taunts accompany the action as he fits behind me like we’ve been huddling together for years instead of days.

“You can sleep. I will keep watch,” he whispers into the crook of my ear.

“I’m not tired,” I lie. Musk and sweat fill my nose, a comfort in the cell’s cloying stench.

“Mhm.” I can hear the rise of his eyebrow in the sound. One of his hands brushes the skin of my cheek, assessing the wound for fever. The pain hasn’t worsened in the past few days, but there’s no way it won’t find an infection in this nasty cell.

“I’m not.”

“Whoever taught you how to lie owes you a refund.”

I snort. He’s talking out of his ass. I know for a fact that I’m an excellent liar, even though no one bothered to coach me.

“Do you have any parents?” I suddenly ask. The question is random and intrusive, and I’m a little shocked it fell out of my mouth so freely, since it’s a topic I’ve always dreaded coming up. I half-expect him to set the price of that answer to some astronomical value that would equate to my entire life supply poured across the floor, so I’m surprised when he responds immediately.

“My father was Bratva. He died when I was a boy.” His head tilts, brushing past a few loose strands of my hair. “My mother’s alive, but wants nothing to do with me, and vice versa.”

“Sounds like a fool,” I mutter, earning a comforting swipe of his thumb.

“I have a baby sister.”

His face changes when he says the words, more quietly than I’ve ever heard him speak. I straighten.

“She’s the only good thing my mother ever made, not that she appreciates it. One day, I’m going to take her away. Give her the opportunities she deserves.”

I contort, trying to see more of his expression in the shadows. His words from that first day run back through my head.

I have someone depending on me.

At the time, I had assumed it was a lover. Relief encases my next breath, which immediately morphs to slick shame when I remember whose fault it will be if that little girl never sees her brother’s face again. Vasiliy was right on the first day, when he deduced that our captors were only interested in me. Sure, they keep throwing him into the chair, but I have a feeling that has more to do with their pride in accidentally kidnapping a big name in the business. With the way they talk about his techniques and various achievements, it’s clear to me that Vas is somewhat of a savant in the interrogation world.

Perhaps that should bother me more. It doesn’t. Nothing means much down here. I’m not a washed-up ballerina, and he’s not a criminal henchman. We’re just people waiting for our turn in hell.

Discomfort stems from hearing details of his life. That buzzing starts up beneath my ears, threatening to spill over with every drowned thought in the poisonous cup. I wonder what will become of an innocent young girl growing up in this world. I know Vasiliy would protect her. I know it with more certainty than I’ve ever waged on myself.