26. Octavia #2
I don’t bother turning towards the low voice.
His attention has been burning a hole in my cheek throughout the drive.
Maybe the rain extinguished the angry blaze that swirled in my chest during our ride to the plane hours earlier.
The passion is already a distant memory, only dancing to life when I feel a certain pair of lips grazing the tip of my ear.
I hum, leaning my face further into the glass. “I’m tired.”
I’m not sure of any other way to describe the weight that yanks down every single breath.
My father’s seated in the next row up with Alex, who only looks away from the glow of his phone every few minutes to murmur something in Russian.
Part of me wants to kick his seat and demand to know how much time is left in the drive.
Another part of me hopes whoever’s driving this tank falls asleep at the wheel and sends the vehicle careening into one of the massive oaks so I never have to face our destination.
Inaction wins out in the end.
We must be several hours into the drive when I catch my first glimpse of the compound’s gates.
At first, it looks like a typical property gate—all embellished metal and pointy rungs.
That assessment falters when we crawl closer to the lights, revealing lanky shadows stationed every few feet, nearly blending into the cover of night.
As the car slows to a stop in front of the iron bars, those shadows mobilize, swarming us with such efficiency that my hand drops to the gun still tucked into my sweatpants.
My stomach curdles when I thumb the metal. I don’t want this anymore.
The driver rolls down his window to greet the guards—not that I can understand their conversation. The only Russian I know is the creative insults my old teachers used to hurl during technique classes. Unless one of them equates someone to a fat cow lazing in a pasture, I’m in the dark.
I lift the gun, silently depositing it onto Vasiliy’s thigh.
His attention drifts up. Eventually, he accepts the offering, soundlessly sliding the weapon into his own waistband.
I know that this is technically my family.
My domain. I should be the one taking point and leading the charge, just like I did when we stepped off the plane.
But with every passing minute, I feel more out of place.
My domain is the tiny zip code containing my shitty apartment, the two trains I take to the studio every morning, and the barre spot I’ve laid claim to for the past fourteen years.
I’m useless in a place like this. I can’t even understand the language being murmured by the guards up front. I might as well be on Mars.
The feeling of wrongness only intensifies as the gates screech open and the car rolls into a massive complex that looks like a cross between a mansion and a shady business headquarters. Then I’m being tugged out the door.
He must sense my resistance, because Vasiliy doesn’t wait for me to climb out on my own, instead lifting my weight and depositing my sneakers onto the gravelly walkway.
“Would you like the tour?” Dad asks.
I can’t look away from the stone architecture, which rises so high it seems to meet the angry grey clouds. The rainstorm dried up during our drive, leaving behind a woodsy, wet residue that hangs in the air. I take in a deep breath of it.
“Not tonight,” Vas answers for me. I feel, rather than see, his attention briefly disappear from my face. “I think we need to get some rest.”
“Very well. Another time.”
I hardly remember the walk to our room. The space we’re led to is so different than the room back in the safehouse, but equally as sparse.
Rather than beige undertones, the walls are a soft brown, and every piece of furniture is carved from aged, polished wood.
It’s the kind of place that Octavia Clarke never would’ve seen in her lifetime.
The bed is plush and inviting, but I’m too wired to pass out. It’s only when Vas suggests a shower that I realize we’re alone in the room.
Shower. That’s probably a good idea.
I walk into the bathroom, the door shutting behind me with a soft click.
My clothes peel off in mechanical movements until my body is bare.
Under the fluorescent lighting, my pale skin lights up with reddish-brown stains where blood seeped through my clothes hours earlier.
I step up to the mirror, peeling off the bandage from my cheek for the very first time.
The wound is revolting. The slice must be at least three inches long, still angry and red from the early stages of healing. A few black stitches hold the severed skin together. Eventually, it will thicken into the reminder it was supposed to be.
“You’ll remember this, bitch. You’ll remember me.”
The bandage on my hand is the next to come off. I’m more prepared for the sight that greets me, but my chest still aches. Many of my nails are missing, either removed from duress or the stitching process. I’m glad I wasn’t awake for that part.
A hot spray of water drowns the pain. I stand there for so long, my legs begin to ache. When I can’t bear standing any longer, I sit on the polished white marble, limbs curling into a tight ball under the endless barrage of heat.
It’s strange. Back in the cage, I’d often thought about the act of killing.
In fact, I’ve had violent urges for years, long before these psychos came into my life.
It was always something I associated with catharsis.
In my head, dealing out my own retribution felt euphoric.
A rush of power. The thrill of vengeance.
I feel none of that.
Bodies are so different from what I always assumed.
We have so much blood, and once it starts spilling, it’s like a bottomless tap that never runs dry.
If I close my eyes, I can see the widening of that man’s gaze beneath his balaclava.
I can watch the moment he realized the tap was open.
He kept trying to swallow around the bullet hole, as though that simple action could fix what I broke.
I have no idea how much time goes by. It’s only when I hear the squeak of the faucet that I look up. Vasiliy doesn’t say a word as he turns off the water. He disappears, only to return a few moments later with a white fluffy towel that wraps around my dripping torso. Then the walls tilt.
The room looks different up here in his arms. The bare decor looks more purposeful. Even the plain white bedding complements the aged wood lining the walls. Maybe rooms like this only make sense to people like Vasiliy. It feels like I was never supposed to be here.
Overcome once again by that horrible heaviness, I rest my head back on his clavicle and shut my eyes. I’ve seen enough. I’m probably getting him all wet, but he doesn’t say anything. The blanket is pulled back, and suddenly, I’m enveloped in warmth. My soggy head settles on a pillow.
When weight shifts on the other side of the bed, I want to turn. I want to throw my arms around him and beg him not to leave me alone here. I want to thank him over and over, until the word loses meaning on my tongue.
But my trembling lips refuse to move.
The only thing I manage is a hot, wobbly tear down my aching cheek. The tears keep coming when he unwraps the towel and uses it to painstakingly dry my long tangles of hair. That’s how sleep finds me, still struggling to breathe a single word of thanks.