13. Octavia
Fire lances through my skin with an intensity that I haven’t felt in all of my twenty-one years.
The wound is a slow infliction, each second stretching into a small oblivion, the same way it does when you’re holding a plank, or watching a train derail off the side of a cliff.
Cold metal presses into my neck and ribs as the guard drags me closer from the other side of the bars, one hand wrapped around the column of my neck, the other pressing his knife even deeper into my flesh.
I think I cry out, though I’m not hearing much of anything right now. My entire world is that brutal, unending streak of pain.
But if I thought the slice itself was bad, that’s nothing compared to the agony when he twists the handle, yanking back the metal embedded in my cheek.
This time, I know a shriek passes through my lips.
The moment his grip releases, I stumble back into the darkness.
My whole face is wet and slippery, and I cradle the pulsing wound as I cower further into the cell.
It’s only a cut, Octavia. Vasiliy has been sliced up for days.
This last round was worse than usual, too.
This time, I forced myself to watch every second of his pain.
I didn’t escape into the filthy cracks in the floor or distract myself with running choreography in my head.
That in itself was a heavier feat than I expected.
I’ve been tuning my mind with escapism since I was nothing but a dirty kid crying myself to sleep in a lumpy cot.
It was a small blessing to learn that skill before I needed it.
After the assault, it was like my brain rebooted with busted coding.
Simple things like walking into the studio every morning or allowing my partners to grip onto my hips in pas de deux classes sent me into heaving spirals.
It took me a week to step back into the studio.
I’ll never forget their expressions when I walked through that glass door and found my spot at the barre.
The memory is still bathed in Gershwin’s slinky notes in my mind.
With each iteration of the composition, I gained stability.
Soon enough, I was seeking out those three men’s faces with a morose curiosity.
I couldn’t comprehend it—how men could do such wretched things in the cover of night and then look right into your face under the rays of morning sun.
I still don’t understand. Not so much the despicable impulses, but the audacity. How strange that nature created a creature who would hold me down and shove his dick into my mouth, and then show up the next day with a clean conscience and a bright future.
He’s speaking, I realize as my ass hits the floor. I keep scooting back into the safe blanket of darkness.
“…about time someone disciplined your bratty ass,” the guard rants on, a cruel laugh trickling down.
Vasiliy’s ragged shouts still whip the air, making it difficult to focus on individual words.
“If you ever have the opportunity to look at yourself again, you’ll remember this, bitch. You’ll remember me.”
My head goes light. I try to find that shred of bravery that allowed me to rise and step toward the bars to protect Vasiliy from taking my punishment, but it won’t reveal itself. He couldn’t lose any more blood. Not if he was going to return to the cage. I don’t regret what I did.
Suddenly, the cage door slams.
My head jerks up, sending a fresh wave of pain through the swollen area.
My tension immediately unravels at the sight of Vasiliy back inside our safe bounds, sprawled across the floor where he’d been tossed in.
The guard leaves quickly, but not before clicking off the small bulb hanging above the interrogation chair, plunging the entire room into darkness.
He’s so damn fast, I don’t even hear him move. I’m curled up on the ground, and then I’m not. Skin is beneath mine. Arms frame my entire form. It takes a few blinks to make sense of the fact that he tucked me into his lap.
“Let me see,” his insistent voice cuts in, hand finding my chin and angling my face.
“You can’t see anything,” I whisper, even as I tilt in compliance. There it is—that sliver of bravery. Maybe it’s him who brings it out.
“Hush.” He leans forward until I can feel his warm breath against the wet throb. “Not clotting,” he murmurs, before reaching down to the fabric of my dress and ripping a strip from the end.
“You had it worse, Vas,” I say, holding my chin still in his hand. “We should be treating your wounds, not mine.”
“He cut you deeper than me.” The bundled strip of cloth presses hard against my wound, causing me to flinch. “Transverse facial artery,” he murmurs to himself.
“Sometimes it’s scary how much you know about blood and wounds.”
A huff of air tickles my lashes. “Letting them bleed out is bad for my reputation.”
Whatever that means.
I can’t help but hiss when the pressure increases against the raw wound. With a few more blinks, my eyes adjust well enough to catch his face shifting above. Something soft grazes my forehead, soothing the pain.
“If you ever interrogate me, I’d appreciate it if you’d stick to below the neck,” I choke out. “Wouldn’t want to die more deformed than I already am.”
“I would never hurt a hair on your head,” he whispers onto my skin. My mouth gapes open a little when I feel his lips, cracked and hot, press into my brow. “And you are not deformed.”
Sure. I tuck my chin down, and the sharp movement sends a punishing throb down my entire face. I know the guard wouldn’t have released me if he hadn’t been satisfied with the damage. My hands fold into my lap, resisting the urge to touch the wetness dripping onto my lips and down my chin.
“But if you ever do something like that again, there’s a very good chance that you’ll be stuck in here alone, because I’m pretty sure you gave me a heart attack. Do us both a favor and stay away from the bars next time.”
I snort, but the sound is lost in the pulses of pain. Like he cares if I live or die. “There’s not much they can do to me in here that I haven’t already survived.”
He doesn’t respond. The hand pressing fabric to my wound disappears entirely. I search through the darkness, straining to get a read on his expression.
“What?” he finally asks. The word is as soft as it is deadly.
I reach for the fabric, wishing I hadn’t said anything at all. His hand pulls out of reach the moment my skin touches his.
“What did you just say?”
I shake my head and scoot back, away into the shadows. The darkness is more comforting by the day. I tug Vasiliy’s shirt tighter around my arms—I haven’t taken it off since I woke with it draped over my form.
“I would like to buy an answer,” Vasiliy suddenly says.
I look up to find him peeling a scab on his arm with the edge of his dirty nail. Skin flutters to the floor, leaving the exposed wound fresh and raw. The action is incredibly revolting, and yet something in me takes a small thrill in the sacrifice. I’m definitely losing my mind in here.
“Fine,” I say. I created the exchange, after all. If I want to keep using it, I have to play along. “Five drops.”
“Five?” He grins. “Don’t you think highly of yourself?”
“Five drops. Take it or leave it.”
I’d prefer for him to leave it. I’m positive whatever answer he’s trying to purchase from my lips is one I’m not going to be excited to give.
My face really fucking hurts. I hold the piece of fabric tighter to the wound, even though the cloth is soaked and rendered useless.
In the corner of my eye, I watch Vasiliy press on either side of his freshly opened cut until a trickle of blood splatters to the ground. I don’t bother to count the drops.
“Alright,” I whisper. “What is your question?”
My skin prickles beneath his attention as it flicks between the pulsing cut on my cheek and my glaring gaze.
“Why do you keep trying to save me?”
I was right. I don’t want to fulfill the trade.
The question is one I’ve considered a few times as I’ve sat here in the darkness. The answer is more selfish than I’d like to admit.
I clear my throat, but the knot lodged in the base remains. “Because…I’m terrified of being alone.”
I look down to avoid whatever response is written across his face. Maybe I should have told him the acts came from an entirely selfless place. Or maybe I should’ve said that I don’t want to see him hurt.
And I don’t.
But more than that, I can’t bear the thought of sitting in here alone.
“I have another,” he says, breaking the silence. “What is your cost?”
I shake my head. I should’ve never started up this little game. “I asked a few follow-ups as well. I’ll answer one more.”
Movement blurs. I startle, realizing he crawled over to my side. He pulls at the button-up around my arms, ripping off a fresh piece of fabric to replace the soggy one pressed to my wound.
I tentatively accept the gesture.
“Where did you go before?”
My lips tug down. The expression pulls at the tender skin. “What do you mean?”
“When you stepped in front of me to stop them from finishing the job. You bit a chunk out of that fucker’s neck. And then…you disappeared.”
Panic trickles through my stomach, along with something heavier. Something that feels exhausted and haggard. I guess it doesn’t really matter what he thinks of me—not when both of us will likely die in the next few days. I still don’t want to relinquish that deep, dark secret.
“Then just now, you said, there’s not much they can do to me that I haven’t already survived,” he continues, parroting my own words back to me.
“Seems to me like you answered your own question,” I say stiffly.
A sharp intake of air rips through the quiet cell. I’ve never heard Vasiliy breathe like that before. Not when he was punched into oblivion. Not when he was stabbed with a knife. Nothing ever seems to reach him, no matter how horrific or bloody it gets in here.
“Who?”
I blink.
“Who hurt you, Octavia?”
My bare legs tuck up beneath my arms. I shouldn’t have to hide it anymore. I hated hiding it then. Even under threat, keeping the secret of those promising young men ripped me to shreds. Besides, he paid me the currency I established. He deserves an answer of the same quality as the ones I sought.
“I always stayed in the studios late into the night, practicing with the day’s tapes over and over,” I start.
A few flutters, and my eyes readjust more to the cell’s darkness.
“A group of guys got out late from company rehearsal one night. Wandered into my studio. I tried to fight them off, but they ganged up on me. I just remember…I couldn’t breathe. ” My voice dampens in my own ears.
“They took turns. Ripped my hair to keep my mouth open. I don’t want to…
” It doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters in here.
“Anyway, one of my teachers happened to walk by and told us the studio was closed for the night and to go home. I didn’t go home, though.
I went to my teacher in tears and told her everything—how they held me down, forced themselves into my mouth.
How they would’ve continued, had she not chosen to walk by that night. ”
I’m so focused on the dirty crack on the floor that I don’t see him move until I’m back in his arms. The formation feels comforting.
A constant in this place we can’t control.
“You know what she told me?” I laugh in a humorless key.
“She said what she saw was just another young student trying to whore her way to the top with company men.”
“Octavia—” he whispers, voice breaking in the third syllable. Suddenly, I’m being moved, tugged closer into his chest like we’ve earned the intimacy of such a gesture. I’m not sure why I allow the comfort.
“It’s fine, Vas,” I say, patting his arm. “It’s all in my past. But, you see, this is not my first experience with men who wish to punish me in that way. I can handle it.” I clear my throat, ignoring the way my vision wavers under a wet sheen. “I always handle it.”
“It is not in the past for me,” he rumbles against my back. “And that is something no woman should ever learn to handle.”
I turn in his lap, seeking out his bright blue gaze. “I’ve seen your scars, too,” I whisper, lifting one hand to the marks littering his chest. “We move forward however we can, right?”
“I can’t,” he chokes, bringing that soaked piece of fabric back to my cheek. “I can’t move forward from this. I need names, zlaya. Hell, I need a fucking list—”
“We may never leave here, and they’ve all scattered.”
“Then it will be a hunt,” he answers without skipping a beat. “And you will never put yourself in harm’s way for me ever again. Next time, you’ll let me face whatever violent urges spark to life in their demented skulls.”
My head shakes. “You lost too much blood, Vas. If you’d taken my punishment, you were going to die.”
“I. Don’t. Care.” He carves out each word against my skin.
“Do you want to know what I’ve learned in years of working with men like that?
” He lifts his head, meeting my eyes. “Selfish people survive. Altruism is a silent killer. It’s the way we’re fucking hardwired from birth, the only reason the species has survived this damn long.
If you want to live through something like this, you have to be smarter. ”
My brows lower.
I consider pushing back. I think about the fact that interrogators probably don’t allow selfish men to live beyond their usefulness, either.
I think about the hypocritical basis of his stance.
I almost ask if he truly believes his own words, why he’s sitting with a random girl in his lap, pressing a makeshift bandage to her wound.
But I don’t.
I can’t bear the thought of his flesh disappearing from mine. Of his hand pulling away from my throbbing cheek.
“Okay,” I say. My lashes flutter closed, and I lean into his touch. “I’ll never do it again.”
He presses closer. I think we both heard the lie in between the words, but in the fragile peace of the cool cell, neither of us has the heart to name it.