17. Octavia
“We should run the DNA test again, to be sure. This could be a ploy—”
“I don’t need another test. I knew the second I saw her.”
“Sir, all due respect, we have to tread carefully here. What are the chances she just happened to drop into syndicate hands?”
Voices, loud and abrasive, draw me from sleep. I fight the tug, more than happy to snuggle back into the warm, soft…
What?
I groan, pain registering in a dull ache the moment consciousness settles over my mind. The gnawing soreness seems to come from every direction of my body, all at once.
I try to reach up and rub the crustiness from my eyes, but my fingers are immobilized, and my whole hand throbs as soon as I shift it.
The argument continues somewhere in the background, but I’m having trouble processing the words that fly through the air. I feel sluggish. Heavy. A rough swallow scratches down my dry throat.
Where the hell am I?
It takes a while before I manage to crack open my eyes, but the action seems to leave me more confused than ever.
The room is strange. A thick, white duvet covers my lower body, the end of it brushing two wooden bed posts on either side of my feet.
The walls are the same monotonous, cream color as the bedding, only broken up by an ugly, green abstract painting hanging right in front of me.
The impersonal touches remind me of a hotel room I once stayed in while the company was touring on the East Coast. At the time, I was certain I’d never seen a room so beautiful, but right now, something about the brightness reflected on every pale surface feels innately suffocating.
“Boss,” someone interrupts the argument. Because the room isn’t empty.
Black clothing bathes in the bright mid-day sun, forming a series of large bodies lingering by the doorway. That can’t be right.
“What?” a voice snaps, laced with authority.
“She’s waking.”
She.
Meaning me.
My brain catches up just in time to lurch up, meeting the intimidating gazes of the large men who are already staring directly at me.
Not good, Octavia. Not fucking good. My heart starts beating faster, clearing away some of my body’s aches under the mask of adrenaline.
An older man steps out of the group. A dark beard covers his jaw, neatly trimmed and in the same inky hue as his short, wavy hair.
I flinch back as he approaches my bed with slow, unsure steps.
His green eyes look familiar, I think. The intensity of their blaze is impossible to avoid, complemented by his dark, severe features.
That’s when it registers: he’s the man I saw in the basement, seconds before I passed out. I didn’t even realize I’m not in the cage anymore.
How long ago was that? And where am I now?
But before I find a single answer, another, far more important thought slices into my consciousness.
Where is Vasiliy?
My entire body tenses. I clench the soft bedsheet, pulling the fabric up to my ribs like a protective shield.
The strange man freezes, lifting his palms in surrender. It’s almost comical, given his massive size and brutal features. “Annika, you’re safe. I promise—”
“My name is Octavia!” I yell, voice raw and raspy. I can’t hold back the response, which bursts free like a condensed explosion in the base of my ribs. A fluffy, white pillow finds my searching hand seconds before it flies through the air, smacking directly into the man’s shocked face.
Someone standing at the door cackles. I don’t recognize his light brown hair and subtle grin, but he looks to be around the same age as the man beside me. His facial hair is more of a stubble, thickening over his top lip in a way that only emphasizes his tight smile.
My fingers fold into fists as I wait for the man in front of me to punish me for my outburst. In the cage, I would never have risked a shout like that.
Not without preparing for the consequences.
My good hand lifts, thumbing the wound on my cheek, only to meet the scratchy material of some kind of bandage.
“I’m sorry, love. Octavia,” he says softly, rehearsing the name like he’s trying to memorize it. “You’re safe here, Octavia.”
“Fucking debatable,” I mutter, sitting up as best as I can. This time, the light-haired man standing at the door manages to stifle his laughter. Barely.
The hazy memories of torture return, causing my arms to shake with phantom pain.
Needles. One after the other, shoved beneath my skin.
Gauzy bandages wrap my entire right hand, covering everything from the tips of my fingers to the top of my wrist in tight spirals of fabric.
I twist my arm back and forth, hissing through the sharp twinges of pain that respond to the movement.
“Our doctor says it will heal. Little, if any, permanent damage.”
This time, I appreciate the man’s contribution of unemotional, direct information. I don’t wanna peel back the bandage and take a look for myself. Not with the sharp scent of blood still so fresh in my memory.
“Can I get you anything, Octavia?” He shuffles forward. “Water, or food, or—”
“Vasiliy.”
I pin the older man with my coldest stare, watching as an expression of pure confusion morphs his features. Dark hair, peppered with grey, falls across his forehead as he tilts his head.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Where is the man who was with me?”
“The man who was hurting you is dead, Ann—Octavia,” he says. Why does everyone keep calling me by that name?
“No, not him.” I shake my head with too much force, causing a painful grimace. “The other man. The one in my cage.”
Fury lines his eyes at the word cage, but he seems to catch my meaning. “Oh. The Morozov boy,” he says. “You don’t have to worry about him either…”
In one quick motion, I grab the man’s collar with my good hand and drag him close.
His spicy cologne fills my nostrils. The scent is nothing like the fragrances I’ve smelled from the ballet’s pompous donors.
It doesn’t scream wealth and effort. It’s a subtle extension of his sharp, calculating eyes, which widen a fraction at my intrusion.
Footsteps slap against the floor as men pile into the room, hands reaching for guns.
The weapons should frighten me. Two weeks ago, just the sight of so many guns would’ve had me stumbling behind this bed and taking cover on my hands and knees, but after days in the dark, I’m desensitized.
I’m used to staring down the dark pits of barrels aimed at my face, and knives pressing into my flesh.
All that’s left is to brace for the pain.
The man doesn’t fight my pull, simply raising his hand in a small wave to the newcomers. I watch, curious, as the group immediately lowers their weapons and stands down.
Interesting.
“I know I don’t look like much,” I say, tightening my grip on the expensive fabric of his lapel.
“But if you hurt one hair on that man’s head, I will find a very creative way to end you if it’s the last thing I do.
” Barely an inch separates our faces as I carve out my threat.
“I’ll bring you down to the dirt with me. ”
Those bright green eyes flare even brighter. But this guy has a very odd reaction to being threatened. Instead of anger, his lips twitch into a confusing grin.
“No, I don’t think we’ll be needing that DNA test, after all,” the grinning man in the doorway laughs as he leans against the frame.
“You think I’m bluffing?” I ask, eyes bouncing between them.
“No, love,” the man beside me responds. “I don’t believe you are.” He chuckles softly as he pulls away, and I release my grip. “Alright. Bring me the Morozov boy.”
My good hand folds into a fist around the edge of the duvet, unraveling one finger at a time before closing shut.
I’m still in my dress from the donor party, I realize.
I’d gotten used to it in the cage, but now that the sun warms my pale skin, the torn, nasty fabric feels wrong.
Everything else in here is crisp, clinical white, and here I am in my torn black dress, stitches still popped open a little too far at the neckline from where the guard ripped it.
The edges of the fabric are frayed and damaged where Vasiliy tore off makeshift bandages for the slice on my cheek.
I tug the blanket further up my chest, trying to hide from the resurfacing memories.
The strange man tried to start another conversation with me a few minutes ago, but I had little interest in what he had to say until he followed through on delivering my first demand.
I wonder if Vasiliy will hate me for what I did, knocking him to the floor so he couldn’t die trying to protect me.
I’d do it again in an instant. There wasn’t a universe where he would’ve been able to save me from getting chained to the chair, and I wasn’t about to let him die trying.
He says that altruism kills, but he doesn’t really believe in mitigating that risk himself.
He’s loyal to a fault under all that bullshit, and I knew somewhere deep in my chest that we were about to come face to face with that particular fault.
I need to ask him if we can trust the large, intense man sitting at my bedside, staring at my face like it’s a complicated puzzle.
I need to touch his limbs and chest to assure myself that the ways they hurt him will fade and heal now that we’re in the light.
Hell, I just need him to return to my side, where he’s been every minute for what feels like a lifetime.
Every second I sit here without his hand fitted into mine, I feel like the life is being sapped from my lungs. Each breath is longer. Shakier. When I finally hear the sound of steps in the hall, I straighten, craning my head to see through the blocked doorway.
And then I’m launching out of bed, wobbling on unsteady limbs to the bright blue eyes that appear in the room. I don’t even remember getting up.
His face is dark and sunken from exhaustion, his hair in wild waves that stick up in every direction.
That ragged dress shirt we shared still hangs off his shoulders, torn buttons revealing every brutal slice and purple bruise splattered over his skin.
He meets me halfway, closing his arms around me in a shield of muscle and burying his face in my hair.
“Zlaya,” he gasps, crushing my body into his. A familiar underlying scent of spice and musk reaches my nostrils, buried beneath layers of filth. I seek out more, pressing my nose in the warm crook between his neck and shoulder.
For the first time in days, I take in a proper, peaceful breath.
He’s here.
He’s okay.
“Wow, brother. You’ve only had a daughter for a handful of hours, and she’s already threatened you twice and fallen for a Morozov. Rough start in parenting.”
The words drop like a pin in the silent room.
Wait. What did he just say?
Vasiliy’s head snaps up from my neck.
The light-haired man who spoke those words so casually props his shoulder against the doorway, smiling like he’s watching his favorite show.
“What did he say?” I ask slowly, turning in Vasiliy’s arms to face the room.
The older man I threatened earlier drags a hand over his face, muttering something in Russian. Then he sighs and faces me.
It’s a good thing that the arms around my waist tighten, because I’m not entirely sure I’d still be upright without them.
“I’m sorry,” the solemn man says, dragging a hand over his face. “I was trying to do this better. Please forgive my idiot brother.”
I can tell that Vas is tracking the guy’s small step forward, because I’m maneuvered tighter against his chest.
“Happy to help!” The other guy tips a make-believe hat, a cheeky grin on his face.
“Forgive. Him. For. What?” I ask even slower. My ears start to ring, and the only thing keeping me grounded is the comforting brush of Vas’s thumb against my neck.
“Octavia, I’m…” The man pauses briefly, throat moving around a swallow. “I’m your father.”