Captive

Chapter 1

Twenty years ago

Nikolai

Blood. Anguish. Hunger.

I’d grown accustomed to all three, life on the streets of Moscow unforgiving.

My papa used to tell me that in order to comprehend the meaning of life, I’d be forced to face all three until I was at my breaking point. Only then would I learn to become a warrior. I’d grown weary of fighting, but I pressed on, determined to make a better life.

One day.

Far removed from the city where blood rained in the streets and people cowered in fear.

“Nikchemnyy vor!”

Worthless thief. The bastards chasing after me had no idea what it felt like to be hungry, to crawl through the muck and filth of Moscow streets just to find a moldy piece of bread. Fuck them. I didn’t give a shit about them or anyone else. I didn’t need anyone’s approval.

As I tried to dodge the group of six, running toward the safety of the alley, one of the fuckers caught me by the arm, dragging me into the center of them.

Within seconds, punches were thrown. It was the second time of the morning, my rage increasing.

I refused to allow the assholes to do this to me any longer.

Panting, I threw out the pipe in my hand, the single piece of bread I’d managed to snag toppling from my pocket.

I stared down at it, blinking several times, hunger gnawing at my guts.

As one eye started to swell from their beating, the taste of blood trickling down the back of my throat, my craving for revenge increased.

To hell with the food. I tipped my head, snarling at the boy who appeared to be the leader.

The boy laughed, his blue eyes shimmering in the gray dawn of morning.

Very slowly he reached down, taking the piece of bread into his fingers, showing me his find before fisting his hand.

When he tossed the lump of flour and yeast in my direction, I lunged toward him, managing to smash my fists against his face.

His cry of agony and surprise was my reward, the way he pressed the same hand he’d used to crush the only food I’d seen in three days to his face giving me a smile.

“Otvali,” I hissed, shifting the iron pipe I’d found just before entering the store from one hand to the other, slapping the same kid in the stomach. Then I turned in a full circle, daring any of them to fuck with me. I growled like a wild beast, allowing saliva to drip from my twisted mouth.

“The little prick thinks he’s funny,” blue eyes hissed in English as he took several deep breaths, acting as if he wasn’t in agonizing pain.

Without hesitation, he threw a hard punch across my jaw, the force spinning me sideways until I lost my footing. As soon as I slammed against the cracked pavement, their beating began in earnest.

The explosion of pain created a wave of nausea, stars flashing in front of my eyes.

“Porezh’ yego!”

“Cut him!” another repeated in English, bellowing as if they’d hunted down their prey.

All six fuckers were intent on slicing me, jabbing their crude knives in my direction as they tormented me with their hateful words. There wasn’t anything anyone could say to hurt me any longer. I was impervious to pain. I had to be in order to survive.

Jerking up, I swung the pipe, smashing it against the largest boy’s knees. As he howled in pain, I grinned, turning in a full circle then swinging the piece of iron again, this time catching the blue-eyed bastard. There was nothing like the sound of bones breaking, yielding to my power.

His screams were more intense than the other asshole’s and as he dropped to the ground, writhing in agony, I smashed the pipe against his forearm. The others scattered away, gasping at the sight of blood.

“Argh!” I screeched, keeping my knees bent as I shifted the weapon from one hand to the other, prepared for another attack.

The sound of an approaching vehicle with a powerful engine dragged their attention away from me.

I took the opportunity to attack, slamming the pipe from one side to the other.

Their screams fueled my anger but as the car jerked to a halt only feet away, I rose to my full height, still shaking the piece of iron in fury.

Only seconds later, the gang scattered like the pigs they were, leaving fresh crimson stains on the street.

I remained exactly where I was, gasping for air.

As the car door opened, I finally turned in the person’s direction.

As he eased out of the backseat, his massive frame highlighted by the waning light, I wiped my mouth, giving him a hard look.

His suit was worth more money than I’d seen in my entire life.

The man approached, gazing up and down then turning his head in the direction the gang had gone.

Three other men exited the vehicle, all approaching slowly.

Every one of them was huge, bulking masses of muscle.

But I wasn’t afraid.

Even though I knew the identity of the man in the slick suit and dark tie.

Maxim Federov, a man they called the monster.

He said nothing as he approached, merely glancing down at the squashed piece of bread then back to my face. When he reached into his pocket, I knew he was going to kill me. Instead he handed me some cash.

“Kupi nemnogo yedy, malysh.”

Buy some food. He had no idea what the rubles would mean to me.

His upper lip curled and he placed his index finger under my chin, lifting it as he glared at my cuts and bruises, finally dropping his gaze to the pipe I still had in my hand. “You’re a tough boy. Aren’t you?” His accent was thick, his voice deep and husky.

I twisted my mouth, never blinking as he stared into my eyes. “Yes, sir.”

“And polite. Rare.” He turned toward one of his men. “Make certain the fucking scum don’t bother the kid any longer.”

“Yes, boss.”

“Take care, kid. Eat. You could use some food,” Mr. Federov commanded before heading toward the same bakery where I’d stolen the bread, the other two men following. I knew of his reputation and what he was capable of.

I shoved the rubles into my pocket, wiping blood from my mouth as I watched him and his men walk inside. After glancing over my shoulder, I crept closer, remaining in the shadows by the front door, curious as to what they were going to do.

Within seconds, I found out.

I could smell the old baker’s fear as he was dragged from the back of the store, spewing words in our native language, begging the man for mercy.

I didn’t flinch when Mr. Federov backhanded him.

Not even a peep came out of my mouth when he wrapped his hand around the baker’s neck, squeezing until the man’s face turned purple.

And when the monster instructed his men to place the baker’s hand on the glass counter, I watched in admiration. I didn’t blink or flinch as he finished the lesson with a swing of a knife to the baker’s hand.

Somehow, the Russian monster knew I was watching. After wiping the knife on the baker’s apron, he walked toward me, a smile on his face.

“Tough kid. That didn’t bother you.” His words weren’t a question but a basic statement, nodding out of respect.

“No, sir. Why should it?”

Chuckling, Mr. Federov tousled my hair. “Where do you live, kid?”

“Nowhere. Everywhere.”

He took a deep breath then guided me outside and toward his car. “What’s your name?”

“Nikolai.” I never used my name. No one ever cared to ask. I was the vagrant, unwanted and tossed aside. Yet I stood tall when I answered, trying to square my shoulders, proud of my heritage.

Even if no one gave a shit if I was alive.

I was a Lenkov. My papa used to tell me to always hold my head high and to keep my shoulders back, proud of my name as well as the strife my ancestors had been through. I wasn’t certain I was even allowed to be proud of anything any longer.

“Get in the car, son.”

A moment of raw fear swept through me, but I refused to let him see. The last piece of advice my papa had told me before he died was never to show a single sign of fear. “Why?”

“Because I told you to.”

His grip on my shoulder was firm, enough so his hold caused a twinge of pain. I knew better than to argue with him. He would kill me.

When I crawled inside, I took another look at the bakery window, fisting my hands. As Mr. Federov crawled inside, I darted a look in his direction.

“You’re just a boy now. Soon. I’ll make you into a warrior.”