11. Octavia #3
“Do you…” I clear my throat, still raw and scratchy from my screams. I still taste the salt of the guard’s blood. “Do you really think your boss is looking for us?”
His head tilts to the left. “I didn’t tell them. What makes you think I’ll tell you?”
Christ.
“Maybe because we’re on the same side of the fucking cage? Or hey, what about because I saved your life back there?”
He huffs. “That’s a tad dramatic.”
“Um, have you taken a look at yourself? You look like a rotting piece of flesh, and they had no plans to drop you into the cage and walk away.”
This man is impossible. Maybe if I apologize for the feral bite, they’ll graduate me to my own cage?
“Nothing in this life is free. It’s not my fault you thought a selfless act would matter in a place like this.”
I’ve never been held a day in my life, either, but at least I figured out how to function in life without turning into an insufferable asshole at every turn. I know you’re not supposed to throw stones from glass houses or some shit, but this guy needs a workbook and a full-time therapist.
“Well, what exactly does matter in a place like this?” I ask, folding my arms over my legs. “I have nothing to barter with.”
To my absolute horror, the piece of shit currently resembling a battered chicken breast swings his gaze down my body.
I glare. “Nothing I’m willing to part with,” I correct quickly, even when my cheeks heat in a flush.
He shrugs. “I think you’ve answered your own question. You have nothing of value to give. Therefore, you’ll receive nothing of value from me.”
My eyes roll back into my skull. Should’ve killed him myself. That’s on me. I don’t know what keeps happening to me every time his life is in question, but I need to work it out before the next time they try to kill him. He said it himself—selfless acts have no place here.
But he knows these people, the voice of reason whispers to me. I hate that voice. He knows this world. Your best chance at survival is learning what he knows. I glare harder, my entire face aching beneath the force of it.
Fine. He wants a trade? I’ll make a trade.
His eyes are already focused on me when I glance over.
I don’t look away as I reach up to my scalp and dig free a hairpin still trapped in my ponytail from the performance.
I know I’ve caught his interest because his pupils leap to the sharp piece of metal with blazing intrigue.
I don’t hesitate, pressing the sharp end of the pin into the soft flesh of my arm.
“What are you—”
Blood wells beneath the bite of pain.
“Let’s make a trade.”
He stares at the small dot of red for a long time before finally responding. “And what am I supposed to do with this currency?”
“Appreciate it,” I snap. “I am bleeding for you by my own hand. That’s not nothing.”
“No,” he says with a strange chuckle. “I suppose it’s not.”
Come on, freak. Take the bait.
“Fine.”
I blow out a breath of relief.
Then he tacks on, “Three drops for an answer. Anything you’d like.”
“Three drops for a single question?” I ask, eyes doubling from the audacity. But my blood is already pouring, ready to be used. Reluctantly, I raise my arm into the air, letting three drops roll off the skin and splash to the floor below.
When the meaningless act is done, he nods once. Then he reaches over and dips his fingers in the liquid, spreading it around like a kid playing with a pile of table salt in a restaurant. Such a psycho.
“Do you really believe your boss will come for you?” I ask. To my surprise, the answer comes without the slightest bit of resistance.
“I’m not sure. I haven’t been working with my new boss for long. I used to work for my uncle’s syndicate in Moscow, but he traded me to the Solokovs a few weeks ago.”
“Why?” I ask.
“You could say I screwed up at work.”
I tilt my head, considering his coy words. “And by work, you mean…”
He stares down at me for a moment, as if weighing how badly I’d handle the truth. Lucky for him, my propensity for surprise has been elevated in the last few days. He seems to come to the same conclusion, because he lifts his chin, gesturing toward the chair on the other side of the cage.
I’d already had my suspicions after hearing that guy call Vas an interrogator. Last week, that confirmation would’ve sent a trickle of fear down my spine. Today, it barely scratches the surface.
“How many have you killed?” I ask evenly.
Fingers trail up to my temple in a ghosting touch. The contact’s a bit unsettling, but for some reason, I don’t move away. “That’s your fourth question, and I’m pretty sure I only agreed to answer one. Besides, I don’t think you want the answer to that one.”
I can’t decide if he’s right.
His head turns a second before a rough, hacking sound works its way free of his chest. Blood splatters to the floor beside my bared legs.
“We’re going to die in here.” The words wander free from my mouth in such a low, mourning tone that they shock even me. Vas’s head turns back to me, eyes widening a fraction before settling back to his usual mask of mirth.
I shake my head. “We’re going to die, and it’s entirely my fault.”
And I still can’t even figure out why.