Page 118 of Gilded in Blood

What happened? Where am I? A groan escapes me as fragments begin returning. My eyes fly open.

The room is dimly lit, the air damp and stale. Bare concrete walls surround us, and a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling casts long, wavering shadows across the floor. This looks like a basement.

Panic surges through me. “Milana…” My voice comes out hoarse.

Almost immediately, I hear her. “Kirill.”

Relief hits me so hard it almost brings me to my knees. I turn toward the sound.

She’s tied to a chair against the far wall, her wrists secured behind her back just like mine. Her eyes are red from crying, but she’s alive.

Thank God.

Beside her, Calina is slumped forward in another chair, still groggy, her head hanging as she slowly begins to regain consciousness.

I twist the other way.

Maxim is tied to a chair right beside mine, his head lowered, a smear of dried blood visible near his temple. He groans and slowly lifts his head, blinking as he struggles back to consciousness.

“Maxim,” I call.

He looks over at me, then around the room, and I see the realization settle over his face. We’re prisoners. Ivan delivered us straight into Michael’s hands.

He groans. “We need to…”

Before he can finish, the basement door swings open, and every head turns.

Ivan walks in first. Michael follows behind him with his hands clasped together, a wide smile stretched across his face, like the cat that got the canary.

Several armed guards file in behind them, taking up positions around the room.

Michael slowly looks from one captive to the next. Then he laughs.

“Well…” he spreads his arms dramatically, “… if this isn’t a full house.”

He begins pacing in front of us. “I have to admit,” he grins. “I’ve been dreaming about this.”

He stops directly in front of Maxim. “Everyone I wanted,” his smile widens. “All in one place.”

Maxim glares at him. “What do you want?”

Michael bursts into laughter. “You know,” he wipes an imaginary tear from his eye. “I find it adorable that you’re asking me that.”

He walks over to a nearby workbench. Several tools lie neatly arranged across it. His fingers trail lazily over them before he picks up a heavy rubber baton.

He weighs it in his hand, then turns back toward Maxim. He twirls the baton once.

“So, how about you start by bringing my father back to life?”

Thud. The baton slams into Maxim’s ribs. He grunts, his chair rocking backward before crashing back onto all four legs.

Michael crouches in front of him. “Well?” He tilts his head. “Can you do it?”

Silence. Michael sighs dramatically. “No?” He stands. “What a shame.”

Maxim spits blood onto the floor near his shoes. “He begged, you know. Your father.”

Michael’s smile disappears.