Page 74 of Nemesis

I can’t look away from the stone architecture, which rises so high it seems to meet the angry grey clouds. The rainstorm dried up during our drive, leaving behind a woodsy, wet residue that hangs in the air. I take in a deep breath of it.

“Not tonight,” Vas answers for me. I feel, rather than see, his attention briefly disappear from my face. “I think we need to get some rest.”

“Very well. Another time.”

I hardly remember the walk to our room. The space we’re led to is so different than the room back in the safehouse, but equally as sparse. Rather than beige undertones, the walls are a soft brown, and every piece of furniture is carved from aged, polished wood. It’s the kind of place that Octavia Clarke never would’ve seen in her lifetime.

The bed is plush and inviting, but I’m too wired to pass out. It’s only when Vas suggests a shower that I realize we’re alone in the room.

Shower. That’s probably a good idea.

I walk into the bathroom, the door shutting behind me with a soft click. My clothes peel off in mechanical movements until my body is bare. Under the fluorescent lighting, my pale skin lights up with reddish-brown stains where blood seeped through my clothes hours earlier. I step up to the mirror, peeling off the bandage from my cheek for the very first time.

The wound is revolting. The slice must be at least three inches long, still angry and red from the early stages of healing. A few black stitches hold the severed skin together. Eventually, it will thicken into the reminder it was supposed to be.

“You’ll remember this, bitch. You’ll remember me.”

The bandage on my hand is the next to come off. I’m more prepared for the sight that greets me, but my chest still aches. Many of my nails are missing, either removed from duress or the stitching process. I’m glad I wasn’t awake for that part.

A hot spray of water drowns the pain. I stand there for so long, my legs begin to ache. When I can’t bear standing any longer, I sit on the polished white marble, limbs curling into a tight ball under the endless barrage of heat.

It’s strange. Back in the cage, I’d often thought about the act of killing. In fact, I’ve had violent urges for years, long before these psychos came into my life. It was always something I associated with catharsis. In my head, dealing out my own retribution felt euphoric. A rush of power. The thrill of vengeance.

I feel none of that.

Bodies are so different from what I always assumed. We have so much blood, and once it starts spilling, it’s like a bottomless tap that never runs dry. If I close my eyes, I can see the widening of that man’s gaze beneath his balaclava. I can watch the moment he realized the tap was open. He kept trying to swallow around the bullet hole, as though that simple action could fix what I broke.

I have no idea how much time goes by. It’s only when I hear the squeak of the faucet that I look up. Vasiliy doesn’t say a word as he turns off the water. He disappears, only to return a few moments later with a white fluffy towel that wraps around my dripping torso. Then the walls tilt.

The room looks different up here in his arms. The bare decor looks more purposeful. Even the plain white bedding complements the aged wood lining the walls. Maybe rooms like this only make sense to people like Vasiliy. It feels like I was never supposed to be here.

Overcome once again by that horrible heaviness, I rest my head back on his clavicle and shut my eyes. I’ve seen enough. I’m probably getting him all wet, but he doesn’t say anything. The blanket is pulled back, and suddenly, I’m enveloped in warmth. My soggy head settles on a pillow.

When weight shifts on the other side of the bed, I want to turn. I want to throw my arms around him and beg him not to leave me alone here. I want to thank him over and over, until the word loses meaning on my tongue.

But my trembling lips refuse to move.

The only thing I manage is a hot, wobbly tear down my aching cheek. The tears keep coming when he unwraps the towel and uses it to painstakingly dry my long tangles of hair. That’s how sleep finds me, still struggling to breathe a single word of thanks.

The aromatic scent of coffee fills the kitchen as I lean against the counter, watching each drop hang off the filter before splashing into the pot. Rays of morning sun stream through the bulletproof windows, painting the tidy kitchen in swatches of yellow. I’ve been up for a few hours. I’ve always found it difficult to outsleep the sun—likely thanks to old habits of training at the crack of dawn with Uncle’s soldiers. Unfortunately, being the first to rise in a compound packed with Bratva men who would’ve killed you on sight a week earlier is a bit awkward.

Today marks our fourth day in the Siderov compound.

Four days of wondering whether my former allies have already dispatched a threat against me. In my most naive moments, I wonder if I could explain my sudden disappearance to Mikhail Solokov before he puts a bullet between my eyes. It’s an especially bad look, disappearing from my post only to pop up in an enemy’s compound. All I can do is hope that they don’t find my Achilles heel, hidden in Russia behind a wall of security and caregivers.

I managed to call on our second night here. I’m sure Sasha has a tech team monitoring outgoing calls just like my uncle, but if he noticed the international call, he hasn’t brought it up. Besides, if he was listening, he probably tapped out after the first fifteen minutes of Anya’s babbling princess tea-party story. The plot was iffy at best. After experiencing the uncertainty of ever hearing her voice again, it was the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.

“Has she left the bed yet?”

I startle at the voice, turning to press my back to the counter. The Siderov Pakhan is far too quiet when he wants to be. Already dressed in a button-down and slacks despite the early hour, he leans against the kitchen entrance.

“No.”

A displeased frown bends his lips.

The other subject overtaking my thoughts swings in. Octavia won’t leave our bed. She’s only crawled out a handful of times since we got here for basic needs, wandering back into the covers directly after. She just needs time, I tell myself. I’m not sure how much I believe it.

Then there’s the plane ticket waiting for me underneath our mattress, where I hid it. Sasha would probably rejoice to see evidence of my impending departure, but I can’t even bear to face the possibility. The ticket won’t take me to Russia. I can’t go back without placing my sister in more danger than she’s already in by association. I’d probably fuck off to the middle of nowhere and hang low until the dust settles.