7. Octavia #3
I tilt my head, waiting for the joke to land, but his genuine expression throws me off guard. With every breath, the cool bite in the air settles the worst of my panic. It’s almost like my body already ran through its adrenaline stores, leaving me in a useless puddle of exhausted terror.
“I’m sorry for trying to kill you in your sleep,” I mutter back, determined to end my life with more forgiveness than it began with.
A snort cracks through my earnest words.
“Something funny?”
His mouth opens in a small O, as if weighing how best to respond.
A soft thud rumbles through the air, followed by the high-pitched squeak of a nearby door.
Every inch of calmness I’ve achieved dissipates with that little sound.
Vasiliy spurs into action, jumping up. He steps in front of me before settling into a casual stance that hides most of the toned muscles flexing in his back.
I want to prepare for what’s to come, meet our attackers on my own two feet, but my legs are a blur of vibration against the dark floor.
I can hear my own heart’s incessant beat, faster and faster.
Footsteps slap across the floor in the distance.
I don’t think I’ve ever been so tense in my life. I focus on the sight of Vasiliy’s hand, curling into a fist one finger at a time.
We’ve been in tougher spots than this, Octavia. Breathe. Think. Attack.
When the door on the other side of the dark room finally creaks open, my stomach flips.
Then I hear a soft click, and my sight goes blind, assaulted by a sudden stream of light. It takes way too long to adjust and identify the source: a small bulb dangling from the ceiling. Dull yellow illuminates the metal chair, sitting empty on the other side of the bars.
When I finally find the courage to look at the man’s face, a bolt of confusion overtakes me. I’m not sure why I had assumed I’d recognize our captor. I guess my mind had begun stacking every enemy I’ve made throughout my short, shitty life and weighing the likelihood of them taking me hostage.
Secretly, I’d been holding out hope that Vasiliy was wrong about the whole Bratva thing.
Random people get kidnapped all the time, right?
Although it’s usually little old ladies on the news with family to ransom small fortunes from, not broke dancers barely scraping by.
Unfortunately, as I inspect the strange man lingering by the doorway, I don’t feel a single pinch of recognition. That feels scarier, somehow.
How does one reason with a captor they don’t even know?
The man strolls past the bulb, closing the distance to the cell. I instinctually lurch back, but I’m already plastered against the wall with nowhere to go.
His light brown hair and dull features are so…normal. He’s large, almost as big as my cellmate.
He’s just a man, Octavia. Men are pathetic. Nothing to be scared of.
My heart thumps faster, dutifully ignoring my gaslighting.
“Well, hello there.” His words are a low echo through the quiet room.
An American, then. Not Russian like my cellmate. Maybe there’s a chance.
The man leans to the side in an effort to meet my gaze, but Vasiliy steps to block his sight.
“You can talk to me,” he says, his voice icy and colder than I’ve ever heard.
“Is that right?” A soft chuckle rumbles through the cool air. “And why would I talk to you, kid?”
“Maybe because your poorly trained men couldn’t wait five seconds for me to be alone before launching your attack. I will warn you,” he says, taking a menacing step toward the bars. “Many have tried to pull something useful from me. None of them are among the living.”
Another low laugh. I don’t like it one bit.
“Well, isn’t that cute. You’re trying to protect her.”
What?
“I’m not sure who you answer to,” Vasiliy starts, head tilting left. “But involving an innocent was incredibly foolish, even for your shitty little team of misfits.”
“An innocent?”
Something about the way our captor parrots the word sets off my nerves.
He releases an exaggerated sigh before crossing his arms. “This is getting tedious, so let’s just rip some bandages, shall we?”
The man slowly walks to the center of the room before resting an arm on the lone chair below the light. To my surprise, those dark eyes jump right over Vasiliy, cutting straight to me. Holding his attention feels like licking a flame.
“I know who you are, Octavia,” he says in a strange tone. “We’ve been following your pathetic life for years now, waiting for a confirmation of your family ties.”
Is there a gas leak in here?
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I murmur slowly, trying to make sense of his words. What does he mean he’s been following me?
Vasiliy flexes his hand back towards me. I read the signal loud and clear. This creep’s enjoying my reactions, and I shouldn’t be entertaining him. I need to calm down.
“I’ve got to admit, you’ve certainly tickled my curiosity, princess.”
I wrap my arms around my chest protectively, shivering in the cold. When I don’t immediately respond to his goading words, he frowns.
“Let’s start at the beginning. Why did you lure the Morozov boy out of the theater last night, Annika Siderov?”