Page 49 of Nemesis

“No, love,” the man beside me responds. “I don’t believe you are.” He chuckles softly as he pulls away, and I release my grip. “Alright. Bring me the Morozov boy.”

My good hand folds into a fist around the edge of the duvet, unraveling one finger at a time before closing shut.

I’m still in my dress from the donor party, I realize. I’d gotten used to it in the cage, but now that the sun warms my pale skin, the torn, nasty fabric feels wrong. Everything else in here is crisp, clinical white, and here I am in my torn black dress, stitches still popped open a little too far at the neckline from where the guard ripped it. The edges of the fabric are frayed and damaged where Vasiliy tore off makeshift bandages for the slice on my cheek.

I tug the blanket further up my chest, trying to hide from the resurfacing memories.

The strange man tried to start another conversation with me a few minutes ago, but I had little interest in what he had to say until he followed through on delivering my first demand.

I wonder if Vasiliy will hate me for what I did, knocking him to the floor so he couldn’t die trying to protect me. I’d do it again in an instant. There wasn’t a universe where he would’ve been able to save me from getting chained to the chair, and I wasn’t about to let him die trying. He says that altruism kills, but he doesn’t really believe in mitigating that risk himself. He’s loyal to a fault under all that bullshit, and I knew somewhere deep in my chest that we were about to come face to face with that particular fault.

I need to ask him if we can trust the large, intense man sitting at my bedside, staring at my face like it’s a complicated puzzle. I need to touch his limbs and chest to assure myself that the ways they hurt him will fade and heal now that we’re in the light. Hell, I just need him to return to my side, where he’s been every minute for what feels like a lifetime.

Every second I sit here without his hand fitted into mine, I feel like the life is being sapped from my lungs. Each breath is longer. Shakier. When I finally hear the sound of steps in the hall, I straighten, craning my head to see through the blocked doorway.

And then I’m launching out of bed, wobbling on unsteady limbs to the bright blue eyes that appear in the room. I don’t even remember getting up.

His face is dark and sunken from exhaustion, his hair in wild waves that stick up in every direction. That ragged dress shirt we shared still hangs off his shoulders, torn buttons revealing every brutal slice and purple bruise splattered over his skin. He meets me halfway, closing his arms around me in a shield of muscle and burying his face in my hair.

“Zlaya,” he gasps, crushing my body into his. A familiar underlying scent of spice and musk reaches my nostrils, buried beneath layers of filth. I seek out more, pressing my nose in the warm crook between his neck and shoulder.

For the first time in days, I take in a proper, peaceful breath.

He’s here.

He’s okay.

“Wow, brother. You’ve only had a daughter for a handful of hours, and she’s already threatened you twice and fallen for a Morozov. Rough start in parenting.”

The words drop like a pin in the silent room.

Wait. What did he just say?

Vasiliy’s head snaps up from my neck.

The light-haired man who spoke those words so casually props his shoulder against the doorway, smiling like he’s watching his favorite show.

“What did he say?” I ask slowly, turning in Vasiliy’s arms to face the room.

The older man I threatened earlier drags a hand over his face, muttering something in Russian. Then he sighs and faces me.

It’s a good thing that the arms around my waist tighten, because I’m not entirely sure I’d still be upright without them.

“I’m sorry,” the solemn man says, dragging a hand over his face. “I was trying to do this better. Please forgive my idiot brother.”

I can tell that Vas is tracking the guy’s small step forward, because I’m maneuvered tighter against his chest.

“Happy to help!” The other guy tips a make-believe hat, a cheeky grin on his face.

“Forgive. Him. For. What?” I ask even slower. My ears start to ring, and the only thing keeping me grounded is the comforting brush of Vas’s thumb against my neck.

“Octavia, I’m…” The man pauses briefly, throat moving around a swallow. “I’m your father.”

The entire room freezes in the wake of Siderov’s words.

They’re relatively inconsequential to me, but my neck heats from the attention of every head in the room turned our way. Threat, a voice whispers in the back of my mind. Seven bodies, trained and honed by the looks of their posture. Siderov is still stationed a few steps away, but his hand twitches as it hangs loose, as if he wants to wander closer to the girl in my arms.

I suspected Octavia’s lineage days ago, when our captors questioned me on her adoption records. They were willing to take her on a busy street the moment they saw her in league with me—obviously, they must’ve had some compelling evidence behind the risk. From the unnaturally still form pressed between my ribs and my palms, it’s evident that Octavia didn’t believe a word our captors said. Denial, perhaps. Trauma, likely.