22. Vasiliy
I’ve learned exactly three things since I woke in the dark hours of the night and dressed, intent on gaining my bearings.
Siderov poorly guards the windows. It only took a few minutes to unscrew the bolts and scale down the side of the three-story residential house, and I didn’t even have to turn the lights on to do so.
Apparently, we’re in some suburb called New Jersey. I always thought American geography was boring as hell, so I only ever bothered to memorize the states that were useful for my assignments. I never thought I’d actually be sent here on said assignments.
Octavia snores. It’s kind of cute.
From what I could tell, we seem to be in a safehouse well hidden within a boring residential district. The other properties in the area are coincidentally vacant or for sale—no one around to hear a thing.
Siderov plans well. I have no doubt that bits and pieces of his story are accurate. After all, the best lies often are to some extent. I’m not stupid enough to believe his intentions are as honorable as he claimed, but I’ll play along for now.
I wonder if he accepted the ransom our captors had offered and proceeded to smoke them out. He knows more about them than he cares to admit, and I intend to find out what he’s withholding.
Reaching up, I grasp the final ledge with my fingers, angling my boot into a loose board before hoisting myself to the window.
I’ve been out long enough that the dark sky is now starting to streak with the purple rays of dawn, and the rising sun heats my exposed neck.
I would’ve stayed out longer, but I don’t want Octavia waking alone.
Her face looked so soft and relaxed when I left.
Nothing like how it looked when she caught a few hours of sleep in the cage.
When I finally pull myself up to the bedroom window, biceps flexing in a soothing burn, I free one hand to wedge the glass back up and step into the room—
Only to be greeted with a speechless, sleep-tossed Octavia staring at me from the bed. Eyes very much awake and flickering with irritation. I straighten awkwardly, brushing my dusty palms against my even dirtier pants.
“We have a door, Vas. Did you even think to try it before cosplaying Spider-Man?”
“Where’s New Jersey?” I ask, ignoring her outrage.
“We’re in New Jersey? That sucks.”
That’s all she provides before face-planting back into the blankets and tugging a pillow over her face. I think it’s just her typical dramatics, that is, until a soft, unmistakable snore whistles through the air. My upper lip twitches.
I allow her to sleep for another hour, sitting in a nearby chair while I try to puzzle all the pieces together.
Sasha’s explanation of our captivity being nothing more than a random hit has me thrown.
I didn’t realize things were that bad between the feuding Bratvas, but, then again, I haven’t looked into Siderov or Popov in many years.
Uncle was never interested in what either had to offer.
I pull apart the information, scouring for something, anything to take my mind off the raw question Octavia asked me last night. Just the idea of leaving her makes my stomach hurt.
Eventually, I’m feeling too restless to sit still.
I rise to my feet, but before I can take a single step, a crisp, white pillow comes flying off the bed.
I catch it out of the air with one hand.
“Don’t. Even. Think about it.”
“Think about what?” I ask in confusion.
“Jumping out the window again, climbing onto the roof, or whatever foolish plans you have cooking up in that dense skull of yours.”
I smile. “You’re bossy in the morning.” She grumbles as I walk over to her side. “I was only coming over to check your bandages. No need to get your panties twisted.”
“That is not the expression,” she mumbles under her breath, but still holds out her wrapped right arm for my inspection.
I pull off the stretchy white bands with gentle touches until I reach the red-stained layer.
The sight takes me right back to that cage. My vision threatens to warp into the helpless snapshot of Octavia tied to that chair. The metal bars that stood between us. Fuck. I force the emotions down.
“How’s the pain?” I ask evenly, unveiling finger by finger.
She has dissolvable stitches under each nail and a few above her cuticles. I’ve never seen the aftermath of this particular injury. My victims never lived long enough to experience it.
“I think whatever pain meds they gave me are beginning to wear off, but I’m good,” she says, eyes almost clinical as she examines the damage. I grunt, reminding myself that this is a woman accustomed to withstanding pain. I brush the bandage taped to her cheek.
Her head tilts toward my touch. “Can I take a shower before you wrap me back up? I smell like shit.”
“You smell fine to me,” I say with a gentle smile.
Fuck. What’s happening to me? “Go ahead. I’ll wrap it back up when you get out.
” I take one final look at a less-severe cut stitched up on her chest before releasing her.
“I’ll find you some new clothes, too,” I call out before she closes the bathroom door, realizing she’s still wearing the dress she was taken in—what’s left of it, anyway. I don’t like the memory it triggers.
When I open our bedroom door for the first time, I’m relatively unsurprised to find an entire team of soldiers monitoring the exit.
She is a Bratva heir, after all. I wonder if she realized yet that she’ll never have the semblance of privacy again without a team of killers monitoring possible threats. If only they remembered the windows.
“Need something?” one asks in a thick Russian accent, not too different from my own.
“She needs more pain meds, and we both require a new set of clothes.”
At the mention of Octavia, the man’s entire demeanor shifts, interest trickling into his stoic features.
I don’t particularly like the enthusiasm, especially knowing Octavia is now a high-ranking member of their syndicate.
Siderov told her that he wouldn’t marry her off for an alliance, but such unions are deeply rooted in our way of life.
I wouldn’t put it past the lower-ranking soldiers to make their bids.
A wall of steam seeps into the room as Octavia steps out of the bathroom in the black sweats and hoodie I left out for her.
The humorously large clothes hang from her small frame.
It’s truly a marvel that she can fit such a massive attitude into such a tiny body.
She needs to eat more, especially if we start training together.
“I’m never going a single day without a shower ever again,” she announces before throwing herself onto the bed.
I chuckle. “What if we go hiking?”
“You can hike. I’ll stay in a spa next door.”
I ruffle her damp head, realizing her hair is still tangled in a million interconnected knots.
“I couldn’t untangle it with one hand,” she admits.
“Turn around.” I slide onto the bed behind her.
My fingers move through the ends of her wine-red strands, pulling them free from the ends to the roots. She’s so close, I can feel every little twitch of her neck. A drop of water falls to my skin, rolling down my wrist.
“You’re…um…good at this,” she whispers as I work.
“Lots of practice. You should see the carnage of my sister’s hair after a single night of sleep. I swear, she must be fighting demons.” The memory brings a soft smile to my lips. I hope I can talk to her soon—I’ve missed quite a few of our daily phone calls now, and I don’t want her to worry.
“I can’t wait to meet her,” Octavia murmurs with real enthusiasm.
It does something funny to my chest. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the emotion.
Maybe she feels the change in the air, too, because a low cough clears her throat. “So, what else did you find out this morning?”
I keep working through her tangles, freeing more strands. “Seems like we’re in a designated safehouse. All of the surrounding residences are vacant, and there wasn’t much car traffic throughout the night.”
“Isn’t my father based in Chicago? Why wouldn’t he just take us there? It’s hardly across the country, and they wouldn’t have to go through all this safehouse nonsense.”
“I was wondering the same,” I say, running through my thoughts from this morning.
“You think he’s hiding something.”
It’s a statement, not a question. She’s quick. I can’t believe she thinks dance could be the only thing she’s good at.
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
She hums in consideration, drumming her left hand against her thigh. “So how do you think we should play this?”
The question throws me off. She’s asking for input again. It’s as though we’re a partnership, just me and her against the world.
In all the years I worked under my uncle, he never once invited my opinion. I was just a soldier to him; another body following his orders. I hadn’t spent much time with Solokov before this mess, but I had expected to hold the same position of mindless servitude.
I don’t think Octavia understands the weight of her trust, not as it falls on my shoulders like a warm blanket in a blizzard. A soft tap against my thigh brings me back to the present, reminding me that she asked a question.
“I think we have two options. We could bide our time and try to collect more information—”
“Who knows how much time we have before the next move? People don’t usually stay long in safehouses, right?”
I nod. “It’s likely we’ll be moving to a second location today, which strips us of even more control.”
My fingers continue to mindlessly comb through her wet hair, even though I’ve finished detangling all the knots.
I think she likes it too, since her head’s tilted back to give me more access.
Sitting here on the bed with her head relaxed into my hands, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so peaceful in my entire life.
The violent voices have gone dormant in my mind, pleased to take a back seat to my new career in hairstyling.
“So, if we can’t risk going to a new location, what’s the second option?” she asks, leaning back into my touch.
I grin when she looks back at me.
“A good old-fashioned shakedown.”