Chapter 37
THIRTY-SEVEN
MADS
The new location is a far cry from the decrepit warehouse.
They’ve moved me to what looks like a private, upscale club—the kind with mahogany paneling, leather chairs, and oil paintings of dead rich men staring down from the walls.
The basement level has been converted into something more sinister, though the expensive veneer remains.
Soundproofed walls. Reinforced doors. State-of-the-art surveillance equipment humming quietly in the corners.
My wrists are zip-tied to a heavy wooden chair that probably costs more than most people’s cars. The irony isn’t lost on me that I’m about to be tortured in luxury accommodations. At least if I’m going to die, it’ll be in style.
The door opens with a soft click, and Pavel strolls in like he owns the place. Which, knowing his connections, he probably does. His scarred face is split by a grin that makes my skin crawl.
“Your girl did it,” he announces, settling into the chair across from me like we’re about to have tea and crumpets.
Relief floods through me so suddenly that I nearly sag in my restraints. Moira actually went through with it. She broke things off with Bane. Moira is free, Domhnall is safe, and maybe—just maybe—this nightmare is finally over.
“Great,” I respond, keeping my voice level despite the euphoria coursing through my veins. “You’ll let me go now?”
Pavel throws back his head and laughs—a sound like gravel being crushed in a cement mixer. The laughter goes on too long, echoing off the expensive walls until it becomes something genuinely unnerving.
“Oh, pcholka,” he wheezes, wiping tears from his eyes. “You are funnier than I remember.”
Ice settles in my stomach, displacing the relief. I mean, I can’t really be surprised. But still. “We had a deal.”
“Da, we did. The Boss said not to touch Domhnall Callaghan.” Pavel’s grin widens, showing too many yellowed teeth. “But you? He said we could do whatever we wanted with you. As a bonus for a job well done.”
The words hit me like a physical blow, but I don’t let it show. Can’t let it show. Instead, I focus on the important part—Domhnall is safe. Whatever happens to me next, at least I kept him out of this mess. At least he gets to live.
“How generous of him,” I deadpan.
Pavel chuckles and rises from his chair. “I have business to attend to. But Mikalai has been looking forward to some alone time with you.” He heads for the door, then pauses to look back at me. “He has very specific tastes, our Mikalai, as you know. And such creative ideas about pain.”
The door closes behind him with a soft snick, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the steady hum of the surveillance equipment.
I test my restraints again—still secure.
The zip ties are the heavy-duty kind, probably rated for a couple of hundred pounds of pressure.
My wrists are already raw from my earlier struggles.
I close my eyes and try to center myself. I’ve survived worse than this. I’ve endured horrors that would break most people. Whatever Mikalai has planned, I can handle it. I just have to hold on long enough for—
The door opens again.
Mikalai enters with the predatory grace of a man who’s done terrible things and enjoyed every second of it.
He’s smaller than Pavel but far more dangerous; he’s got the kind of wiry muscles that comes from years of violence.
His pale eyes are the color of dirty ice, and they light up when they settle on me.
In his right hand, he carries a long, curved knife. The blade gleams under the overhead lights, its hooked tip designed for one very specific purpose—gutting fish. Or anything else that needs to be opened up and emptied out.
“Beautiful girl,” he purrs in heavily accented English, running the flat of the blade along his palm. “Pavel, he tell me you are very brave. Very stubborn. I like stubborn girls. Their screams make for best music.”
He approaches slowly, savoring the moment.
I keep my face blank, refusing to give him the fear he’s looking for.
I’ve played this game before. And as scary as this fucker thinks he is, I’ve faced far more evil monsters.
I grew up with one who amused himself with far darker entertainments, and while Anna disconnected and went into the deep box in our mind, I was the one to take it.
To watch what he forced us to watch. To take the occasional beatings when we weren’t a good girl—the suffocations and the half-drownings.
The key is to scream into the pain and not run away.
Because if my father ever sensed fear, he would chase it with more and more insidious psychological tortures.
He loved fear almost as much as he loved pain.
If you showed an ounce of it, the punishment would last three times as long.
After a while, fear itself burned away along with every other emotion except rage. His perfect little trained animal.
Until I wasn’t.
“Nothing to say?” Mikalai asks, stopping just in front of my chair. The knife hovers near my face, close enough that I can see my reflection in the polished steel. “Most girls, they beg by now. They cry. They promise things.”
“I’m not most girls.” I smile up at him.
His grin widens. “No. I think you are not.” He grabs my left hand, examining my fingers like he’s selecting fruit at the market. “We start small, yes? Work our way up.”
The knife moves to my pinky finger, the hooked tip sliding under the nail. I feel the sharp bite of steel against tender flesh, the warm trickle of blood as he begins to pry upward.
The pain is immediate and excruciating—a bright, electric agony that shoots up my arm and explodes behind my eyes. I bite down hard on my tongue to keep from crying out, tasting copper as my own blood pools in my mouth.
I swore to myself when I escaped my father that I’d never ever be in a position like this again.
“There we go,” Mikalai croons, applying more pressure. “Let me hear those pretty screams—”
The world tilts sideways.
It’s not the pain; I’ve handled worse. It’s something else. Something deeper. The familiar sensation of slipping away, of consciousness fracturing and reforming into something new.
No, no, no. Anna can’t switch now. She can’t handle this. Then I frown even as the swimming, dizzy sensation swings more violently.
Am I passing out from the pain? Usually it takes a fuck more than just losing a fingernail to—
Oh fuck. No. I feel her even as I start to lose my grip. Something else entirely. Something cold and calculating and utterly without mercy.
Her consciousness brushes against mine like a handshake as she takes over, and I gasp in shock, my last aware thought—oh fuck, Anna was right. It’s not just the two of us in here after all.
RED
When my vision clears, I’m looking at Mikalai through different eyes. The pain in my finger has faded to background noise. Everything feels sharp and crystalline, like I’m seeing the world through a high-definition camera.
Mikalai is still focused on my fingernail, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration as he works. He hasn’t noticed the change. Hasn’t seen the shift in my posture, the way my breathing has altered from rapid and shallow to slow and controlled.
Poor, stupid Mikalai.
He’s leaning in close, knife hand extended, completely absorbed in his work. He’s forgotten the first rule of restraining dangerous people—never get within range of their legs.
I shift my weight slightly, testing the chair’s balance. Heavy, but not immovable. My legs are free, and years of survival have taught me that legs are the strongest weapons that too many people ignore.
I wait until he leans even closer, savoring his handiwork on my destroyed fingernail.
Then I strike.
I shove the chair back just far enough so that when my right leg shoots up in a vicious kick, my heel connects with his wrist with a wet crack. The knife goes flying, clattering across the expensive hardwood floor to land several feet away.
Mikalai staggers backward, clutching his broken wrist and cursing in rapid-fire Belarusian.
Before he can recover, I drive my other leg forward and up, the top of my foot catching him squarely in his dick. The air rushes out of him in a whoosh, and he doubles over, gasping.
I use his momentum against him, hooking my ankle behind his knee and yanking forward while pushing with my other foot.
He crashes backwards, the back of his skull cracking against the corner of a solid tabletop behind him with a sound like a melon splitting.
I like that sound.
He doesn’t get back up.
I rock the chair backward, feeling the weight distribution shift. The expensive piece of furniture is top-heavy, all that mahogany craftsmanship working against its structural integrity.
Another hard rock, and it topples over sideways with a satisfying crash. The impact jars my shoulder, but more importantly, it brings me within reach of the knife.
I strain against my restraints, fingers stretching toward the gleaming blade. So close. Almost there. The zip ties bite deeper into my wrists, but I don’t care. Pain is temporary. Death is permanent.
My fingertips brush the handle. I walk my fingers along the smooth surface until I can grip it properly, then carefully maneuver it until the sharp edge presses against the plastic restraints.
The blade is wickedly sharp—it cuts the zip ties like they’re made of paper. In seconds, I’m free.
I stand slowly, testing my balance, knife held loosely in my right hand. Mikalai is still unconscious, a small pool of blood leaking from the back of his head onto the pristine floor. His breathing is shallow and irregular.
He’s dying. Probably has been since his skull kissed the corner of that table. Brain bleed, most likely. He’ll be gone in minutes.
I could finish him now. Quick and clean. But watching him fade is more satisfying somehow. More poetic.
I step over his prone form and walk to where his phone has fallen from his pocket. It buzzes with an incoming text from Pavel:
PAVEL: How is our guest enjoying the hospitality?
I type back:
MIKALAI: She’s singing beautifully. Will need at least another hour.
His response is immediate:
PAVEL: Take your time. Enjoy yourself.
Perfect. That gives me a window to work with.
I flip the knife in my hand, feeling its weight, its balance. The motion is automatic, meditative. Like a pianist running scales.
Time to go have a conversation with Pavel about the nature of contracts and the importance of keeping one’s word.
The hallway outside is empty, just expensive carpet and soft lighting. I move silently, my bare feet making no sound on the plush fibers. The knife feels warm in my palm, eager to be useful again.
Somewhere in this building, Pavel is conducting his business, thinking he’s won. Thinking he’s outsmarted the dangerous little bee who’s been buzzing around his operation.
He’s about to learn why my name is Red.
And why smart predators never, ever corner an animal with nothing left to lose.