Chapter 8 Nadya
NADYA
The warehouse reeks of bleach and death when we finish cleaning the latest scene.
Three bodies this time, all Brotherhood soldiers who thought they could ambush Xander.
They miscalculated his paranoia and paid for it with their lives—or at least that's the story he’s told me.
I watch his men practice the techniques I've been teaching them, noting how they miss the obvious blood spatter on the ceiling tiles.
These men excel at creating messes but struggle with eliminating evidence.
They just don't have the eye for detail, and if they were in charge of things, Xander would be caught in no time.
"You missed the overhead surfaces again," I tell Igor, pointing to the dark stains above the main kill zone.
"Blood travels upward during arterial spray. Always check above eye level."
He grunts acknowledgment and climbs onto a crate to reach the forgotten evidence.
Ivan continues scrubbing the floor too quickly, with too much moisture on the sponge.
It spreads the blood rather than cleaning it.
"Circular motions dilute the sample," I explain to him.
"Work from outside edges toward the center. Contain the area before you clean it."
These lessons feel surreal.
I'm teaching killers how to hide their crimes more effectively, using knowledge I should've put to use in a much better way.
The forensics program trained me to find evidence, not destroy it.
Every technique I demonstrate corrupts the purpose of my education and brings me shame upon shame.
Xander observes from the warehouse entrance, arms crossed over his chest while he evaluates his men's progress.
His gunshot wound has been healing cleanly over the past week, but I can still see how he favors the arm.
It kind of burns me how he hasn’t even thanked me for that.
Just the one-time payment for an "acceptable" job.
"Acceptable improvement," he announces when the scene meets his standards.
"Next time, I don't want to stand here supervising you."
Igor and Ivan gather their supplies and head toward the exit.
I begin packing my own materials, assuming the evening has ended and I'll be heading home to explain another late night to Irina.
The lies accumulate daily now, becoming more elaborate as my sister's suspicions deepen.
When I missed a spot of blood on my own shirt sleeve, I had to fib about a nose bleed that never happened.
I hate lying to her.
With my stuff packed up, I turn toward the exit, assuming Xander will stop me to give me my payment, but when he calls out, I'm surprised by his words.
"Not you," Xander says, and I look over my shoulder.
"You're coming with me tonight."
"Why? The cleanup is finished and your men understand the basic protocols now."
I gesture toward the spotless warehouse.
"There's nothing else for me to do here."
"The Brotherhood has increased surveillance lately. Remember the little escapade in the car last week?"
He opens the warehouse door and cold air rushes inside.
"You'll stay at my apartment until the situation stabilizes."
I've done a few jobs this week—all in my own clothing and not the expensive items he purchased, and now he has the nerve to suddenly think I'm in danger?
I shudder to think of what he really wants, especially after the hungry way his eyes devoured me in those dresses.
So I do the only thing I can do—I resist.
"I can't disappear without explanation," I protest.
"Irina will panic if I don't come home tonight."
"Tell her you're working extended shifts at the hotel. Tell her you're staying with a colleague. Tell her whatever story maintains the fiction you've created."
He doesn’t leave me any wiggle room to argue with him.
"But you're not going home tonight."
The expression on his face makes it impossible for me to argue anymore.
He has a gun, and he is way bigger than me.
Even if I screamed for help, no one would come.
Igor and Ivan are nice enough guys, but they work for Xander.
They'll only do what he says and leave me trapped with the beast.
So I relent and though my eyes wistfully search the horizon for any escape, I slide into his car and his driver shuts the door behind me.
Xander climbs in the other side and we ride in silence across the city to one of the tallest high-rise apartments on this side of town.
My neck cranes to see the top of it, and Xander's hand finds the small of my back as he guides me into the building.
We use the elevator to climb in silence to the twenty-eighth floor where he opens a door to an apartment facing the river.
The view when we walk in is breathtaking and I immediately feel out of place.
The man has money—I knew that based on how much he pays me, but this is next-level.
I'm shocked.
"Kitchen is stocked, anything you can think of. Make yourself at home and I'll be back."
I set down my bag and explore the main living area while he disappears into what I assume is his bedroom.
The apartment reflects his personality—expensive but utilitarian, beautiful but dangerous.
Weapons hide in plain sight among the decorative objects, and I spot at least three guns within easy reach of the seating area.
I could easily pull one out and use it to procure my freedom, but I don't feel threatened by this deviation to my schedule for now.
Books line built-in shelves along one wall, mostly Russian literature.
Though Dostoevsky sits beside Sun Tzu, Anna Karenina next to The Strategy of Conflict.
The juxtaposition seems appropriate for a man who profits from both the wars he fights and the art of ensuring they stay hidden.
"Are you hungry?" Xander asks as he walks back in.
His jacket has been removed, tie loosened.
His hair is mussed slightly too, as if he ran his hand through it.
I turn to face him fully and sigh.
"Not really."
The stress of the evening killed my appetite hours ago.
"I should call my sister and explain why I won't be home. I don't even know what to say to her."
His eyes darken as he moves toward a liquor cabinet and pours a drink.
"Tell her you're working a double."
"Fuck's sake… You don't get it, do you?"
I throw my hands up in frustration.
"I'm a normal person, Mr. Morin. I don't like lying to my family. I can't keep doing this."
"You blame me for the situation you're in."
He turns, sipping his drink, and I almost lose it.
"Don't I have the right?"
Anger flares in my chest, hot and sudden.
"You destroyed my life the night you put that gun to my head and forced me to clean up your mess."
"I gave you employment when you were desperate. I pay you more than you would make anywhere else."
He steps closer, gray eyes fixed on mine.
"How exactly did I destroy your life?"
"By making me complicit in murder. By turning me into a criminal. By forcing me to lie to the people I love most."
My voice rises with each accusation.
"My mother would be ashamed of me. I wasn't supposed to turn out like this."
I feel the quiver in my lip as I bite back more accusations.
"You were supposed to be a lot of things before your mother got cancer and died."
His words cut deep, targeting the guilt I carry about abandoning school.
"Reality changed your plans. I simply offered alternatives."
I hate his calm demeanor.
If I were less of a person, like him, I would take one of his hidden guns and shoot him just to have my freedom.
"Alternatives? You threatened to kill me if I refused."
"And yet you keep answering when I call."
He takes another step closer.
"No one forces you to pick up that phone, Nadya. No one holds a gun to your head anymore."
My blood is boiling because he knows that's not true.
If I don't answer that phone one time, my brains will be splattered all over Irina's walls, and maybe hers too.
"I hate you," I whisper, and I let my chin drop.
If I toss that phone in the river and try to vanish, he will hurt my family.
And if I tell Irina the truth and we try to run, she'll never forgive me.
I'm stuck.
"No, you don't."
He reaches out and touches my face, thumb brushing across my cheek.
"You hate that you want me."
The contact sends electricity through my body and I stiffen.
Feeling his touch makes loathsome shame wash through every cell of my being, but I find myself unable to back away.
The fire that ignited in my core while bandaging him last week returns with fury, pooling warmth in my groin that forces a knot into my throat.
"Don't," I say, but I don't move away.
"Don't what? Don't touch you? Don't acknowledge the desire I have for you?"
His hand slides into my hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands.
"Don’t admit that I think of you while I'm touching myself, hmm? Do you think of me too, Ptichka?"
I do think about him. Every night since treating his gunshot wound, I've replayed the memory of his bare chest under my hands.
I've imagined what would have happened if he'd pulled me closer, if I'd let my fingers explore the scars and tattoos covering his skin.
"You're dangerous," I breathe.
"Yes."
"You kill people."
"Yes."
"You threatened my family."
"To keep you in line, Ptichka, so I could protect them. And you."
His other hand settles on my waist, pulling me closer until only inches separate our bodies.
"The Brotherhood saw you at that store with me. They would've found you eventually. This way, you have value to me, which means you have protection."
"I don't want protection. I want my normal life back."
I am whimpering like a goddamn baby while his touch makes my insides unravel.
What the actual fuck is wrong with me?
He murders people for a living, and I'm letting his hands make my body come alive.
"Your normal life was poverty and desperation. Working minimum-wage jobs while your sister struggled to support two children alone."
His grip tightens possessively.
"I gave you power and money and purpose."
"You give me nightmares."
"And excitement. And desire. And reasons to feel alive again after months of merely existing."
His thumb traces my lower lip.
"Tell me you don't feel it, Ptichka. Tell me you don't want me to touch you, and I will stop right now."