Page 32 of Bratva Sacrifice

His hand is on the small of my back, gliding slowly up my spine to rest between my shoulder blades. It’s a touch I would have found comforting—yesterday. Before I knew what he was. Before I knew who he was.

I’ve been so stupid. I basically participated in my own kidnapping. I might as well have gift-wrapped myself.

My eyes sting and burn. A tear slides down my cheek and is absorbed into the pillow fluff.

“Is okay, koshechka.” There’s the rasp of his chin against my shoulder, the faint burn of a new growth of beard. I think he means it to be soothing. My skin crawls with a shiver instead. “Rest now.”

Bitterness and humiliation coat my tongue. Through the fabric cover of the pillow, I rasp, “I’ll fucking kill you.”

And Alexei—Alexei laughs. A soft chortle, as if I’ve said something truly amusing. His hand curls over the nape of my neck. “This is also okay, koshechka. Maybe, for fun, I let you try.” His warm breath stirs the hair near my ear; his teeth nip my earlobe. His voice is a velvety purr. “I like spicy. Remember?”

I wrench my head away from him, blinking through the blur of tears. My vision clears a bit at a time as my fingernails curl into the sheets beneath me.

And I see my mom’s face, staring back at me from the nightstand. A framed picture; the last one we took together before her cancer came back with a vengeance. The last photo we both look happy in. The only one I took with me when I fled my apartment Chicago, stuffed into my suitcase between layers of clothes to keep it safe.

I thought I would never see it again. It should be at the motel in Minneapolis. But it isn’t. It’s right here, on the nightstand beside the bed.

My eyes close on a shuddering sob. I can’t decide if it’s meant to be a gift or a taunt. If any part of my life was ever private.

That hand at the back of my neck kneads my tense muscles, and I know—my escape was doomed from the very beginning. I never had a chance. Just the illusion of one, which I was allowed to keep only so long as it amused him.

∞∞∞

I’ve been malingering by design. By early afternoon I’m recovered, but Alexei hasn’t left me unattended for more than a few minutes at a stretch. And so, when he’s present, I curl up beneath the covers and pretend to be sleeping until the next time he’s called away. It’s not often, and it’s never for long. But it’s enough time—barely—to have taken an inventory of the room in the five-minute bursts available to me before I have to dive once more back beneath the covers when I hear his distinctive footsteps in the hall.

His nightstand drawer is full of condoms. His dresser and closet are stuffed full of his clothes. The bathroom holds an array of toiletries. No obvious weapons; not even so much as a razor. Like he already knows if I manage to find something I can use as a weapon, I will.

As the sun begins to set, he’s called away again. A text message this time, which provokes a rough spate of angry Russian and an aggrieved sigh. “Stay in bed, koshechka,” he says gruffly, as he always does before he leaves the room. “I will not be long.”

He never is.

But within a minute of his departure, there’s a strange new sound in the hall outside the door. A faint squeaking accompanied by smaller footsteps. I think whatever it is—whoever it is—will pass, but the moment I hear them stop outside the door, I yank the covers up to my chin, recoiling from the unexpected intrusion.

It’s a woman pushing a silver cart. She’s probably between thirty and forty. Her hair is tied away from her face, and there’s a few flecks of grey within the dark strands. There’s an apron hanging around her neck and tied around her waist over a clean, neat uniform that resembles a chef’s.

She doesn’t meet my eyes as she rolls the cart closer, parking it at the side of the bed where she lifts a silver cover off of a plate. The smell of food permeates the air. I wonder if this is something she’s only too familiar with—the process of feeding Alexei’s women. Something that has become such a long-standing routine that she doesn’t even bother with introductions, doesn’t bother even to glance at me. Because in the grand scheme of things, I’m nothing but a mouth to be fed. A temporary amusement.

I haven’t eaten all day. I’ve been too busy feigning sleep.

It might be drugged. I can’t take the chance even though my stomach is cramping now with hunger.

But as the woman turns to go—still without a single word—I notice something important. Alexei might have thought to cull all possible weapons from his room, but this woman who delivered dinner to me clearly hasn’t been so informed.

She’s left me silverware. The spoon I might not have a good use for, but there’s also a silver fork. A steak knife. A glass of wine I could pour out and smash, use a good-sized shard to—no; probably not. I might cut myself instead.

How long do I have left? Not very, if the past few hours is any indicator. Alexei is never gone for long.

None of my own clothes are in here; I’ve rifled through the drawers already. But Alexei’s clothes are, and beggars can’t be choosers.

Within moments I’ve filched a pair of sweatpants and a plain white shirt from his drawers. I know exactly where they are now; the only reason I haven’t availed myself of them before was to retain the element of surprise. The pants are several inches too long, and the hems don’t want to stay above my ankles even when I roll them up, but at least I can pull the drawstring at the waist tight enough to keep them on. The shirt hangs on me, but it also covers and disguises the fork and knife tucked into my waistband.

I’m almost finished rolling up the legs of my stolen sweatpants—again, so I don’t trip on the hems—when I hear the now-familiar sound of Alexei’s footsteps in the hall. Shit. I had hoped, with a couple of makeshift weapons now on my person, I might have had a fighting chance to slip out and escape. That a knife would prove enough of a defense to ward off anyone who might try to stop me.

Now I need a distraction.

The food. I’m not going to eat it anyway. I decided that already.

My heart climbs into my throat as I skitter back toward the silver cart and grab for the plate sitting on it. It’s still hot; hot enough that it stings my hands to hold it even for the few seconds I need it as I head back toward the door and brace myself on the balls of my bare feet.