Chapter 14
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
VIKTOR
“Stimulants might not be a good idea, Sokolov. He's still running hot.”
“Just do your fucking job, Andrei.”
“If this goes wrong,” Petrov says, his jaw tight, “that's not on me.”
A needle pricks my bare arm. The cold bite of the metal is the first thing I truly feel.
They're not trying to knock me out. They're trying to keep me conscious and controllable at the same time.
I wonder if they sedated me earlier to get me out of bed and away from Jonah without a fight.
If they did, it fucking worked. They drag me down the back stairs while my head is still fogged.
My feet are useless weights, but my heart is already beginning to hammer against my ribs from the injection.
I try to count the men, but the edges of my vision are fraying. There's too many of them.
The world spins. My feet scrape concrete. My shoulder slams into a brick wall when someone yanks too hard. A flare of pain finally cuts through the fog. A door opens. Stagnant air pushes over my face. We're back in the fucking basement.
“Hold him,” Sokolov growls. “He'll fight the second the kick hits.”
Grips clamp down. They drive me into the center of the room and force me to my knees.
Two men pin my shoulders. Another palm grips the back of my neck, keeping my head lowered.
They don't tie me. They don't need to. Cold metal snaps tight at my back, the chain going taut as they drive me down.
It's long enough to kneel, not long enough to stand straight.
I can feel him before I see him.
Sergei steps into the circle of light in a tailored suit. The ring with our crest flashes when he lifts his hand, gold sharp against the gloom. He looks me over like he's inspecting damaged cargo. “Welcome back, Viktor. I'm sure you remember the room.”
“You motherfucking snake.” I bare my teeth. “Come closer, see how much I remember.”
The guards wrench my arms higher until pain rips through my shoulders. A corner of Sergei's mouth lifts. He turns, letting the men see me. “You hear that? The rightful prince. Still barking. Though he's been busy ever since I let you wake up.”
“You let me—” Understanding hits. My mouth clamps shut before I spit, “If you touch Jonah—”
“Then what, nephew?” He crouches in front of me.
“I was content to let you live your life under the radar, Viktor. Safely tucked away while I managed the real work. But then you had to go and take the harbor.” He tilts his head, a cold smile touching his lips.
“Bad decision. You made yourself a target the second you stepped onto those docks. I couldn't let you have them.”
Everything clicks into place. It wasn't about the name. It wasn't about the throne. It was the harbor. That had been the moment everything changed.
“If I decide I want your pretty nurse now,” Sergei continues, standing up and smoothing his sleeves, “what are you going to do? Hm?”
I spit in his face and laugh when he shrieks, stumbling back.
“You son of a bitch,” he snaps. “I'll make you regret that.”
“Yeah? If you step toward Jonah, I'll take your fucking life.”
“We'll see about that.” Sergei wipes his face clean. “It all depends on how well you do tonight.”
A ripple moves through the men. They smell blood. Rage burns through the drug-haze. If I lose this, he takes Jonah.
“That dose isn't enough, Andrei.” Sergei turns to Petrov.
“It will soon kick in.”
My uncle doesn't look reassured, but he turns to the other people present.
“As you all know, Viktor has been unstable for weeks.
He has become a liability. As his loving uncle, I've taken him in after he was stupid enough to get himself shot, but we all know how tough this world is. Charity is expensive. Even for family. Which is why the time has come to choose who the real Morozov king needs to be. Him? Or me?”
Low murmurs ripple through the room. They echo in my head.
“You locked me in that room,” I spit. “You want loyalty? Start there. You haven't even told me if Lev is alive.”
Sergei's face doesn't move. “Lev was always soft,” he says. “We'll discuss him later. Tonight is about you.” He moves a step closer. “You remember the parking lot of Vesper?”
The confession is a blunt instrument designed to show me how deep the rot goes. I don't look away. I memorize every pair of eyes in the circle, marking the men who watched me bleed and called it business. I'm not a victim. I'm a ledger-keeper, and every name is written in red.
Sokolov stands in the circle with his arms folded. “He fell hard. Bled all over my shoes.”
A few chuckles. My ribs pull tight.
“I told him,” Sergei continues, “I just wanted some scratches on you, that's it. If you died, I'd have him buried beside you. A dead nephew is an inconvenience. A wounded one is useful.” His eyes fix on mine. “A puppet,” he adds.
“Fuck you,” I snarl. “You're the one who should be hanging here. Traitor.”
“You hear that? Looked after in my house, on his knees, snarling and restrained, and calls me traitor.”
“Still thinks he's king,” someone mutters.
“Exactly.” Sergei lifts his glass. “Andrei.”
Petrov steps out of the shadow. His hand holds a loaded syringe. “Show the men what keeps our prince so manageable.”
I twist against the fingers holding me. Another arm comes across my throat, cutting off air. “Get that away from me!”
“You'll be all right,” Petrov murmurs. “It's just—”
“Don't lie to me, Andrei.”
He flinches. The chemical sting from the syringe catches in my nose. Petrov grips my arm. I jerk, but the men pin me harder. The needle slides in. Cold slips under my skin, followed by a heavy warmth that spreads fast through my veins. My fingertips grow distant.
Sergei watches each change. “Alive,” he tells the men, “but breakable. That's the point. Strength is only useful when it bends where you want it.” He takes a sip from his glass. “If he performs too well, we know our doctor hasn't earned his pay. Isn't that right, Andrei?”
Petrov's throat moves. “Yes, sir.”
The edges of the room pulse. Then a figure steps out of the circle. He's broad across the shoulders, thick-necked, with old breaks along his knuckles.
Sergei gestures toward him. “Mikhail has trained here his whole life. He understands his place. Tonight he has a chance to show you why it should be above his prince's.”
His eyes meet mine. I see no respect. Just something sour and satisfied. Sergei doesn't bother to hide his enjoyment. “Rules are simple. If you manage to stand when Mikhail is finished, you live another day. If you fall—” He clicks his tongue. “Your pretty nurse is mine.”
The words hit. Mikhail rolls his shoulders. The first punch drives under my ribs. I don't have the strength to trade blows, so I hunt for his balance instead. I use the weight of the chain and the slickness of the blood on the concrete to turn his own size into a trap.
Air rips out of my lungs. Pain tears up my spine and settles behind my eyes. The drugs make the world move in slow, agonizing waves. The second blow hits my stomach. His knee comes up into my chest. My head snaps back.
Blood fills my mouth. I spit it at the floor near Mikhail's boot. “That all you've got?”
He snarls. “You fucking asshole.”
I pant as sweat drips from my forehead. My vision is blurred. He tips his head back and laughs. “Drugged and hanging and still mouthing off.”
My voice scrapes out. “Come closer.”
“As you wish, prince,” he mocks, stepping in again.
His fist comes up. I drop my weight, every inch I can steal from the length of the chain.
His knuckles skim past my jaw. I twist and drive my shoulder hard into his hip.
The floor is slick, making his boot slide.
I follow through with a short hook into his ribs.
Pain explodes through my own chest, but I don't let him see it.
He slaps a palm against the wall. Before he can plant his feet, I bring my heel sideways into the side of his knee. The sound is small and wrong. A pop that has Mikhail go down on one knee with a curse.
“He shouldn't be doing that after what we pumped in him,” Sergei mutters.
Mikhail pushes himself up. Whatever pride he came in with is gone. “You think this changes anything? You're still up there on the chain.”
He lunges for my head. I jump as much as my body allows. His fist grazes along the bone. I turn into him, hook my arm around his throat, and drag him in so close his breath hits my ear. We slam into the wall together.
“You don't deserve any of this,” he chokes. “You were born into it.”
“So you'd better show me some respect.”
His nails scratch at my skin. His injured leg trembles.
I use what I have left. The thought of Jonah.
The wall. Gravity. I drive him back into the concrete with my body.
The impact of his skull against the stone jolts through me.
His fingers weaken. The back of his head hits the floor with a dull, empty sound.
No one rushes in. My chest drags air in, hard and broken. Every breath grinds against ribs that feel bruised from the inside. The sedative makes the room swim, but the logic of survival is clear. Sokolov's smile has thinned.
Sergei approaches, shoes untouched by the blood. “Look at you. Still snarling.” He studies my face. “Your father stood here once. In the same light. He even made the same sounds. He thought if he was loud enough, he'd be saved. But no one came to save him.”
“You broke him,” I rasp. “Just like you're trying to break me.”
“I took him out of his misery. Your Papa was very ill. Strength is knowing when to put something down.”
“You son of a—”
Sergei pinches my throat between his fingers and squeezes. Pain spikes. “Careful, nephew. You're very, very alone now. You are a piece on my board. My piece. My puppet. Andrei.”
Petrov moves forward again, already holding another syringe. His hand shakes. “I wanted him slower. Weaker. Crawling before the first punch. He was still performing. Next time you triple it if you must.”
“Yes… yes, sir.”
Sergei watches the flickers in my face. “You'll live another day. Long enough for them to see where you stand. Take him upstairs.”
Hands grab under my shoulders. My knees buckle. My feet scrape the floor. The chain jerks hard, yanking me forward. The world becomes a series of disconnected images. The flickering hallway lights. The smell of floor wax. The cold iron of the door. They shove me through the doorway of my room.
The chain finally slackens.
“Viktor!”
Jonah's on the floor beside me before I fully register falling. My knees smash into the rug. My palms slide. His are the only solid thing left in the world.
The sedative is a thick, black tide, but the heat of his skin anchors me to the floor.
I survived the basement because Sergei thinks he's my weakness, but he doesn't realize the nurse has become the only reason I haven't let the dark take me yet.
When the fuck did that happen? When did I let a stranger become my only anchor?
“What did you do?” he shouts. “What the hell did you do to him?”
One of the guards snorts. “He's alive. That's more than he deserves.”
The door closes. The lock turns.
Jonah's thumb presses under my jaw, trying to lift my face. “Come on. Stay with me.”
“I'm fine.” It sounds like someone else.
“You're not fine. You're bleeding everywhere. You're ice cold.” He rips a sheet, presses it to my ribs. His palms shake. “Sorry. I have to. It's okay. I've got you.”
The sedative drags heavier. Jonah leans close. His warmth is the only thing keeping the fog from turning into night.
“You're okay,” he whispers. “You're with me. You're okay.”