Chapter 24
twenty-four
Well, this is boring.
Drumming my fingers on my knee, I tap out the rhythm to “Dead or Alive” by Bon Jovi on my dirt-marred skin. Hunger gnaws at my bones, my stomach growling in protest at the lack of nutrients. I’ve refused to eat the plates of food they send in through the slot at the bottom of my prison door.
They are drugged.
It has only been a few days since the Dashkov building collapsed, and I haven’t heard anything. Not a peep. If they are truly dead, I would have expected my distasteful, backstabbing grandmother to be down here gloating.
They’re alive.
The mantra runs through my head on repeat.
A welcome broken record of reassurance. If they were in the vault, they would have survived.
It is a genius system. The vault worked on a separate system from the rest of the building.
If for any reason the surface building is breached, the underground remains untouched.
Matthias even had the foresight to make sure the vault had its own life-support system.
Oxygen, electricity, air. Everything in the vault is self-contained.
They have to be alive.
Which begs the question of why the fuck I am still sitting in this god-forsaken cell. I can’t be all that hard to find, especially since I am still wearing the tracking necklace Vas gave me a few days after I became Pakhan.
It is small and unassuming. Perfect to hide in plain sight. No one is the wiser that the gold anchor on my neck will spell their doom.
The shuffling of feet sounds outside my cell door. Dinnertime. Right on cue. My stomach growls in protest, but there is no way in hell I am falling for that trick again. The door to the cell swings open, the hinges creaking noisily. I wince at the obtrusive sound in the otherwise silent room.
Huh, usually they don’t come in when it is chow time.
“You’re still alive, I see,” a smooth voice interrupts the silence. “Surprising.”
I scoff. “Did you want me to die? You don’t sound too disappointed that I’m still breathing.”
“Why would I be disappointed, dear?” the woman asks, her head tilted slightly. “If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have brought you here.”
Fair point.
“What do you want, then?” My patience is wearing thin with this woman. “Family bonding time?”
The woman’s Cheshire grin beams at me through the dark. “For you to have supper with me.”
Her painted smile and dark eyes make her look unhinged, and for a moment, I wonder what she would do if I told her to shove the food straight up her tight asshole.
Thoughts loading…
Nah, not gonna risk it.
“I’m not exactly dressed for dinner.” My gaze shifts pointedly down to my dust-covered and torn clothing that also lacks foot apparel.
“Narana will take you to bathe and change,” my grandmother assures me before turning to leave.
She stops at the door, and turning her head, she warns, “And in case you get any bright ideas about attempting to run—know that every inch of this house is guarded, and you will be put down like a dog if you try.”
“And here I thought you didn’t want me dead.”
Her smile turns vicious. “Let me spell it out for you then,” she elaborates. “You try and run, and I will make sure each of my guards has a turn fucking you like the bitch you are. How’s that?”
I swallow hard, my face paling at her words. “Much better. Crystal clear.” Keeping the tremor from my voice is near impossible. “Five stars.”
“Good.”
And then she is gone. Like Dracula through the mist. If I find a stake and drive it through her withering heart, I wonder if she would turn to dust.
“Let’s go.” Narana, a brawny older woman with a square face and peg-shaped nose, steps toward me, grabbing my upper arm in a bruising grip. “Follow me. No trouble.”
Hulk. Smash.
Well, with that accent, she isn’t Irish.
I let her lead me from the cell and down the corridor toward the stairs that lead up to the main house. Or what I hope is the main house. I wasn’t conscious when they brought me in. Cement stairs end at a large wooden door, and when Narana opens it, the smell of spice engulfs me.
Definitely a step up from the mold and piss smell downstairs.
A few more sharp turns and a flight of stairs later, we land in front of another wooden door that Narana tells me is my temporary suite.
How nice of grandmother to give me such luxuries.
“Shower,” Narana demands, shoving me toward the en-suite bathroom. “You have ten minutes. No more. I come back to do hair.”
“Sure,” I mutter as she stalks from the room, her tree-trunk legs moving much faster than I would have thought. The slam of the door and the click of the lock seal me inside.
Alone.
Great. I am locked in.
I make my way into the lavish, overly tiled bathroom and turn on the shower to warm before sliding out of my dirt-encrusted clothes. Do I want to have dinner with my psychotic grandmother? No. But I do want a shower, and that is enough to get me to cooperate.
For now.
They’re alive.
Stepping under the warm spray, I tilt my head back and let the water drown away the only tears I will allow myself in this house. No matter what happens after I step outside the bubble of this space, I won’t let it break me.
But I do need a plan.
Escape isn’t going to be easy, and my grandmother’s threat isn’t an idle one, so I need to be careful.
Very careful.
Matthias will come for me.
He is just running late.
Super late.
Fucker.
Grabbing the body wash and the brand-new grotesquely pink loofa that is strung up, I vigorously wash at the dust and dirt that has accumulated in that cell. The clear water runs muddy as I strip away every vulnerability until there is nothing left but a clean canvas.
One I will paint with their blood.
“Time is up, girl,” crooked-nose Narana commands. “Out now.”
Reluctantly, I turn off the flow of heavenly water with a heavy sigh and step from the shower. Narana waits expectantly with a towel in her hand. When I grab for it, she shakes her head and instructs me to lift my arms.
Great, Porky the pig nose is going to dry me.
She towels me roughly, getting every uncomfortable crevice, before wrapping me in a black silk robe and instructing me to sit on one of the vanity stools.
“Good girl,” she praises me when I do as she instructs.
My skin crawls at her approval, like ants scurrying through an anthill.
That is the last thing she says as she lotions, polishes, sugars, and primps my body and hair for the next two hours.
By the time she is done, my ginger hair is curled, my face painted, and my skin shines like a brand-new car at the dealership.
I have a sinking feeling there is more to tonight than a simple dinner request.
That feeling grows the moment I see the dress laid out for me on the bed.
It is a simple yet luxurious maroon velvet strapless cocktail dress with a sweetheart neckline that dips just low enough to hint at inappropriate.
The bosom is slightly ruched, and the hem barely falls to mid-thigh when I stretch the fabric over my curvy frame.
Wonderful.
“Come,” Narana commands. She takes me roughly by the elbow and leads me, stumbling in my stripper heels, from the room. After another few twists and turns, and a few stairs I nearly break my neck on, we arrive.
“Jesus,” I mutter distastefully. There has to be a worse word than gaudy.
Horrendously opulent, maybe?
The walls are painted a deep red, and the wood beneath my feet is blacker than charcoal. The dark cherry dining room table spans the room seating for over a dozen guests, yet only five seats have place settings.
Also in black.
Maybe my Dracula theory has merit.
Or the bitch just likes the color that represents her soul.
One thing is for sure. This room is where they sacrifice the virgins on the full moon.
At least I can breathe easy on that front.
“Finally,” my grandmother’s voice fills the large expanse, echoing mildly off the low ceiling. She inclines her head at my pug-nosed handler. “Thank you, Narana. That will be all.” Narana bows and lets go of my elbow before she retreats from the room.
What a good little pet for master.
Sheila turns her attention to me. “Much better.” She raises an appraising, well-manicured eyebrow. “A good cleansing can do so much for a person.”
Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I say, “Yes. I’ve always wanted to be washed and primped like a prized cow before auction. I may not be a virgin, but from the way your maid was scrubbing at my vagina, it’s probably shining like gold right now.”
A snarl paints my grandmother’s red lips. “Your attitude could use some work,” she grouses primly, her head high, nose in the air. “So could your crass words. Picked up from those Russian barbarians, no doubt. Not to worry, dear. Those are things easily beaten from a woman.”
“Touch me, and you’ll find out in surprising detail what happens to people who don’t respect my boundaries.” I shrug a shoulder nonchalantly. “Shall I grab one of the candlesticks and give it a go? Miss Scarlett in the dining room with the candlestick sounds like a good narrative for me.”
Ah, there is the reaction I want. The ice beneath the prim facade. Sheila’s brown eyes narrow, her face darkening like thunderclouds. I can see the faint lines of her Botoxed forehead twitching, yearning to get free and wrinkle the smooth expanse.
“I’d watch your tongue if I were you,” she hisses. “You have no idea what I am capable of.”
I smirk. “Maybe it’s you who should watch yourself, grandmother.” Her eye twitches. She doesn’t like that name. Not one bit. “You have no idea what I am capable of. Remember that.”
Silence.
Then she chuckles darkly, and with a grand gesture, takes her seat at the end of the table.
“I have no doubt,” she admits. “Now sit. I was told you haven’t been taking advantage of my hospitality and eating the food supplied to you.”
This woman is bipolar.
Or psycho.
Maybe both.
Yep. She is both. There is no way a normal person can easily switch their mood like that. Certifiable, this one. Looney as a tune.