Chapter 28 Athena
ATHENA
I'm pushed into an SUV where two other men are.
"Hold her still," a gruff voice orders.
Someone yanks my arms behind my back and zip ties them, cutting into my skin. I cry out, but they don't care.
Then a bag is pulled down over my head. The material is rough against my cheekbones, smelling faintly of gasoline and something coppery. I gasp, sucking the fabric against my mouth.
The vehicle lurches forward, sending me sprawling against the seat. My shoulder connects with something hard, a door handle maybe. Fresh pain radiates down my arm.
"Dimitri!" I scream and feel a hard slap.
"Shut the fuck up," someone yells.
I breathe through the pain.
God, I hope he's still alive.
The SUV turns sharply, throwing me against someone who pushes me off of him. Through the hood, I can make out movement, shadows, nothing more.
Men's voices filter from the front seats, speaking rapid Greek. I strain to catch words, phrases, anything that might tell me what the hell is going on.
"Take her to the secondary site," one of them says.
"Okay. Kastaris won't be far behind. We should have just…"
My heart stutters in my chest. Kastaris. They have to be talking about Dimitri.
He's alive.
And if he survived, he'll come for me.
After some time, the SUV slows, tires crunching over what sounds like gravel. We're turning, heading down a rough road. Since I can't see, I can feel every bump and dip.
"Call ahead," one of them says. "Tell him we got the girl."
My breath quickens. Who is "him"? Is it S?
The vehicle slows to a crawl before stopping completely. The engine idles for a moment, then dies. Car doors open and slam shut.
My door is yanked open, and hands grab me, pulling me roughly from the car. I tumble out, unable to catch myself with my bound hands. My knees hit gravel, small stones digging painfully into my skin through my pants.
Someone drags me upright. I sway on my feet, disoriented.
"Don't fucking try to run," a voice warns, close to my ear. His breath is hot against my neck, smelling of cigarettes and something sour.
A hand shoves between my shoulder blades, forcing me to walk forward.
Metal groans somewhere ahead of me, a door opening. Where am I? A warehouse? A garage?
My shoulder collides with what feels like a doorframe. My hood muffles my hiss of pain.
The hand grips my arm and pulls me forward. I stumble, unable to see where I'm going. The ground changes beneath my feet, concrete now, firm and hard.
The air smells different too now, damp and weirdly like old metal. The temperature also drops several degrees, making me feel cold.
A rough hand clutches the back of my neck.
"Sit," the voice orders.
I don't move fast enough.
A boot hooks behind my knee, knocking me off balance. I drop hard onto what feels like a wooden chair.
The bag stays over my head.
My breathing sounds too loud inside it. Each inhale draws the material closer to my nose and mouth, creating a suffocating pocket of recycled air that tastes like dust and something metallic, maybe blood. I try not to think about who might have worn this hood before me.
A door opens somewhere to my right. Footsteps, two sets, maybe three, cross the concrete floor.
"She awake?" a different voice asks.
A hand pats my cheek through the bag, jarring my head to the side.
"She's awake," a man says.
A long pause.
"She say anything yet?"
"Nah, not really."
"Okay, I'll go get the boss," someone says and walks away.
Something hard pokes at my temple, a gun barrel. I flinch but force myself to stay silent.
"Your little boyfriend was bleeding out when we left him, you know." The voice is closer now, breath hot against the side of my head. "Head wound. Chest wound. Not looking too good."
My chest tightens, but I force myself to stay silent. They're lying.
If he were dead, they wouldn't have bothered with the bag.
They wouldn't have tied me up.
They'd have left me in the dirt beside him.
No, I think. They want me alive for a reason.
Bait.
"Did you hear me?" His shadow shifts forward. "He's probably dead by now."
I don't speak.
"Nothing to say to that?" He laughs. "Suit yourself. You'll beg before it's over."
Footsteps retreat, and a door closes. I don't see any shadows, at least none that are moving, so I think I might be alone.
Under the bag, my breathing sounds loud. I look from side to side, but I can't make anything out.
Time passes, I don't know how long. Minutes bleed into what must be hours. My whole body aches from being in the same position. My bladder is painfully full, but I refuse to ask for anything. The idea of showing any vulnerability makes me physically ill.
I try to shift, to find some relief, but the zip ties hold firm and none comes.
Distant sounds filter through the space around me. Footsteps coming and going. Doors opening and closing.
At one point, something heavy scrapes across the floor, the unmistakable sound of a gun being set down on a table.
My throat grows more parched with each passing minute. I try to work up saliva, but my mouth feels like cotton.
How long do they plan to keep me here?
What are they waiting for?
The questions circle in my mind like vultures, but no answers come.
Then, finally, the door opens and new footsteps approach. These are different from the others, a tapping sound that tells me it's dress shoes, not boots.
I straighten in the chair despite the pain in my shoulders.
"Leave us."
I hear shuffling, the scrape of chairs, muttered words I can't make out. A door opens and closes. Then silence again.
Guess I wasn't alone.
"You're braver than I expected."
This has to be him. It just has to be.
His voice is smooth. Not what I imagined when I pictured the monster who destroyed families.
"Take this off," I rasp, my throat raw.
A soft laugh, genuinely amused.
"I don't think so, not yet anyway."
He steps to the side, and I feel rather than see him crouch. The warmth of his body moves closer.
"Do you know who I am?"
My heart pounds so hard I'm sure he can hear it. The fabric clings to my face with each rapid breath.
"S. That's who you are, isn't it?"
He doesn't deny it.
Doesn't say anything at all.
The silence stretches until I can't stand it.
"You used him," I say. "You used my father."
"Your father was useful until he wasn't," S says, voice firm. "He was weak."
"Weak," I say. "Says the coward too scared to take off my hood. Who hides behind threats and money."
He sighs.
"And you're your mother's daughter. Beautiful, angry, reckless."
Anger cuts through me, hot and sharp.
"Fuck you. Don't you talk about my mother."
He just laughs, and my rage builds so intensely I almost scream.
"You think this ends with me," I hiss. "But it doesn't. Dimitri will come for me."
"We'll see about that. He'll have to find you first."
He steps closer. I can feel his breath through the canvas now, warm against the fabric. The scent of expensive cologne fills my nose.
"I've got big plans for you, don't worry," he says, and his hand slides in between my legs, "Big plans indeed."
I jerk my body away.
"Don't fucking touch me," I say, disgust rises up my throat, thick and bitter. I want to vomit.
I hear S scoff and walk away.
"You should be very afraid. He'll come."
Silence.
And then, "Keep her here," he says to someone. "We'll move her tonight."
The door opens and his footsteps fade.
I sag against the chair, the bag hot and suffocating. Every muscle in my body aches. Thirst claws at my throat. Fear gnaws at the edges of my mind.
But I cling to the one thought that keeps me from breaking:
He's coming for me.
And when he gets here, when he finds me, S is going to learn what real fear looks like.
Even though I can't see anything through this suffocating darkness, I can feel the storm approaching. I can taste it in the air like electricity before lightning strikes.
You should be afraid, S.
Because when he gets here, there won't be a place left in this world for you to hide.