Page 41 of Nemesis

I’m sure a professional would have a field day with the psychoanalysis—dead dad, absent mother, and years of being molded by my uncle’s hand. The moral of the story is, I don’t do attachments.

Well, I do one.

When I strolled up the hospital steps nearly six years ago, intent on fulfilling the obligatory duty of meeting my new sibling, I didn’t know the threat I was about to be dealt. By the time I walked in the room, Mother was already packing up and arranging transport for the child. That’s right. Separate transport for my baby sister, who required a few extra weeks in the NICU after a premature birth.

She wanted a son. Another son, one who would have better success at securing her permanence in the Morozov Bratva. She wasn’t a Morozov, herself, after all, and now that her first husband was dead and her anchor son was turning out to be more fuck-up than moldable leader, her best shot at regaining stability was a healthy baby boy, not a premature girl.

Unfortunately, as soon as I lifted that little bundle into my arms in the empty hospital room, I was doomed. Her pudgy face and big blue eyes crunched up my heart like a trash compactor. I saw a million things in half a second. Images of her experiencing the same childhood I suffered through. A future of arranged marriages and sweetening the pot for meaningless business deals.

That day, I made myself a promise.

No more attachments. I could only afford the one, and even so, it had an excellent chance of leading me to my own demise.

My fingers comb through soft, red waves, gently freeing the knots and tangles. When her entire frame is curled up in my lap like this, it reminds me how small she is. She doesn’t feel small when she’s awake. Her presence feels massive and vibrant, a bright streak of graffiti on a dull brick wall.

My face and body ache from the beatings, but shitty as it is, I’m used to that kind of pain. I’ve been taking beatings since the ripe age of eight. The external damage is nothing compared to the dread that thrums in my bones. I knew from the second I woke in the cage, my own belt woven around my neck like a noose, that getting attached to the fierce little nuisance locked in with me was not an option. It’s hard enough to break free on my own. Add another person to the mix, and escape is relatively futile.

I hadn’t expected her to step in front of me.

Willingly bleed for me.

“Appreciate it,” she’d said when I asked her what I was supposed to do with the offering. “I am bleeding for you by my own hand. That’s not nothing.”

She was entirely correct.

It’s not nothing. In fact, the more I think about it, I can’t come up with a single name who would offer me such a sacrifice.

Octavia’s face shifts, her nose settling better against the base of my neck. The contact settles me instantly, chasing away the cloying violence rising in my system. One of my fingers rises to the soft plane of her cheek.

She’s so different than the girl I argued with and taunted nearly a week ago. I would never have expected someone so small and pretty to wield such idiotic bravery in my defense. Even if I had the opportunity to sleep safely, I doubt I could. That horrifying story she told me keeps playing in my head in an unending loop.

There’s not much they can do to me that hasn’t already been done.

The solemn look in her eyes as she whispered those words comes to mind, consuming far too much space. I don’t want her to handle any more shit for as long as she lives. Women like that are supposed to live bright, glowing lives far away from the darkness of cages like this.

How did she get dragged down to the depths of my world?

Tearing my gaze away takes a Herculean effort, but it’s about time for my hourly assessment. I look around, systematically reviewing the points of entry throughout the room as I try to ground myself in facts and plans.

One door.

Keys hanging against the far wall for the cage.

A cabinet containing knives and a lighter on the far side of the interrogation chair.

I haven’t figured out how to use any of the knowledge yet. Every time I find a viable opening for myself, they separate us.

As time dribbles by, I know we’re running low on opportunities. When the leader finally figures out his endgame, we’re going to have to do something. I remember him talking about ransoming Octavia to Siderov, but who knows if that bastard will even take the bait? If Octavia’s right about her past, Siderov will have little interest in paying for some random girl.

A soft cry brings my attention back to the gift I’m hoarding in my arms. Another nightmare. I hate her nightmares, almost as much as I hate the prospect of waking her from them with this horrible place. I’m not sure which she prefers—the villains in her dreams, or the possibilities of reality.

My nose dips, brushing down the side of her cheek. When her face relaxes from its tension-filled scrunch, I press my lips below her lashes with the ghost of a kiss. For me, I realize with fascination. The action is meant to soothe me, not her.

All of my training sounds the alarms. She could still be lying to me, hiding information about the Siderovs, and yet, I’m not sure I care anymore.

Uncle’s cruel laugh spawns in my mind. Look at you, Vasiliy. A few days locked with some woman, and already so easily manipulated.

Fuck off, I think, gathering Octavia’s long hair and separating it into three distinct chunks. I grin when I realize which braid I’m weaving her hair into.