Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Annika
“Easy now. Easy.”
I let out a soft groan, fighting through the heavy blanket of unconsciousness that has hold of me.
“Papa?” I croak, recognizing his voice.
I try to set up, but hands gently push me back down.
“Don’t get up,” my father tells me, his voice laced with fear. “Stay still. They’ll hurt you, maybe even the baby if you don’t stay still.”
My eyes feel like they’ve been scrubbed with sandpaper, but I pry them open. Soft light from a blurry unicorn touch lamp laminates the room- and I suddenly realize it's my room. I blink a little, trying to push the scratchiness in my eyes away, and my father’s face comes into focus.
His face matches the worry in his voice.
“I’m so sorry, doch,” he rasps, pushing my hair out of my face, “I’m so sorry.”
I try to sit up, but restraints tug against my wrists, and I begin to panic through the drug-induced haze.
“What are you doing?” I demand. “What did you give me? Where’s Kirill? What have you-”
“I had no choice!” My father snaps, his weary expression twisting into anger. “You don’t understand, it needed to be done!”
“Papa,” I say warily, feeling the drugs wear off a little more, “What did you do? Why am I here?”
“Don’t fight it, doch,” my father wearily replies, moving off my bed. “It is the only way to keep you and your sister safe.”
“Safe?” I snarl, feeling my rage burn through what’s left of the drugs. “This is safe?!”
“You’ll see,” my father tells me, turning away from me. “Once it’s done. You’ll see.”
I pull at the restraints again, ignoring his earlier command to be still.
“Let me go!” I shout as my father opens my door.
“It had to be done,” he answers softly, shaking his head as he moves to close the door. “I had no choice.”
I let out a scream of rage as I pull against the restraints. Maybe if I yank hard enough my old bed frame will break. Maybe if I can just-
My door flies open, erupting with a groan as it slams into the wall. It’s not my father, though. I don’t know who this man is, with his black clothes and black mask hiding his identity. What I do know, though, is that he’s holding a syringe in his hand as he stalks toward me.
“No more of that,” he tells me, his calm, deep voice sending a shiver down my spine.
“Who the fuck are you?” I snarl.
“One dose won’t hurt your baby,” he goes on, ignoring me, and I go rigid. “But a second will start breaking down its amniotic sac. A third will cause what little organs it's developed to break back down into nothing. You don’t want that, do you?”
Fear pours through me, breaking me out in a cold sweat as my eyes stay glued to the syringe. The masked man moves with a quickness, a black blur that is suddenly very close with the tip of his needle only centimeters from my eye.
“Answer,” he snarls.
“No,” I quickly answer.
I love the baby inside me, even though a month after finding out about it, I’m still shocked at the news.
He or she is the perfect little combination of Kirill and I want so badly to see them grow up.
I want to see me grow. Yes, my breasts are almost always tender now and the morning sickness is amping up, and I haven’t even began to show yet- but I want to.
I want to watch my belly grow big, feel the little kicks as my baby grows stronger- and I’m not going to risk that for anything.
The masked man slowly inches the needle away from my eye, standing up straight.
“You need to be quiet. Be a good little bitch. Do as we say. And you’ll be able to walk out of here with your baby when we’re done,” he tells me.
“And my husband?” I ask.
I know it’s risky, but I can’t help it. I don’t know the specifics, but I’m not an idiot. I know that my baby and I were kidnapped to get back at Kirill.
“I’m sure you’ll do fine as a widow,” the man says, his tone cold and numb.
“No,” I moan, suddenly feeling sick.
Tears prick my eyes as I picture Kirill’s lifeless body.
I have a lot of reasons to hate him. He took my freedom, confined me to a prison with almost no privacy- but the truth is I love him.
Ever since the day he brought ice cream home for me, something between us has changed.
It isn’t just rough, hot sex that connects us anymore, or a stupid alliance either.
It’s something else, something stronger.
“Not another word,” the masked man warns, taking a step toward the door.
I nod, biting my bottom lip to keep my sob inside. The man tilts his head as he looks at me a moment longer, as if curious about my reaction to the news of my husband’s impending death.
“Stupid bitch,” he then mutters, then turns back to the door. “Crying over a man like him. It’s not like he could actually ever love you anyway.”
He slams the door behind him, and with a jolt I let out a cry and begin to sob.
For the next several minutes that’s all I do.
I cry for myself, my baby. I cry for my father and Valya.
I don’t know what their part is in all of this but I’m sure they’re not willing participants.
They wouldn’t look so harried and pale if they were. And my Papa said they had no choice.
I cry for my husband. Even if the masked man was right. Even if Kirill doesn’t love me. I've fallen in love with him. I cry until my eyes feel full of sandpaper again and I feel exhausted by my self-pity.
I want to close my eyes and sleep, sleep until it's all over. As I close my eyes though, the only image of comfort I can conjure is Kirill. Lying in his arms, my cheek pressed against his muscled chest, my hand splayed over his heart. I’ve fallen asleep most nights to the rhythmic feel of his heartbeat upon my palm.
To the feel his arm wrapped tight around my waist, holding him to me as if he needed me.
That’s when I realize- my husband loves me too.
A man like Kirill doesn’t cuddle, but he cuddles with me.
He doesn’t share parts of his life- but he does with me.
He doesn’t give away his control- but the night he brought me ice cream, he did.
With me. And he’s not going to let me or his child go. Not easily.
I turn my head toward my pillow, wiping my tears from my face, and take a deep breath to get a grip on myself.
My husband is going to come for me and he is going to survive.
That’s what he does, who he is. He didn’t become the Pakhan by being weak.
When he comes for me I need to be ready, need to make it as easy as possible for us to get out of here.
So I push my fear away, and begin to take a long look around myself and my room.
My dress is gone. So are my jewelry and high heels.
I’ve been changed into an old pair of my pajamas.
I push the vile thought of the masked man being the one that could have changed me away, and focus on the positive.
This is good. Pajamas will be easier to run in than my dress and heels anyway.
I focus on my surroundings next. Despite the familiar light blue walls and wooden furniture, something’s different, and I realize it’s the windows.
My gossamer midnight blue and silver star curtains aren’t letting in any light.
Even at night, the moon and starlight and glow of the street lights would filter in.
Now there’s nothing but blackness behind those curtains.
Boards, maybe even metal panels, must be covering the windows now.
No other exit but the door then, I think as I keep looking around my room.
Most of my things have been brought to Kirill’s, but my old furniture is still here, including my nightstand which has a drawer.
Gently, so as to not rattle the chain links my cuffs are attached to, I try to reach for the handle.
My fingertips are only able to smooth down the small, circular knob, but I lean as far as I can and flex my fingers.
At first there’s nothing, but then I hear the small grating sound of wood against wood, and feel the knob start to move toward my palm.
Yes! I can do this. I can open it enough to get my hand inside.
I can stretch my fingers around until I find something.
And I can be ready for when my husband comes.