Page 198 of Nothing More

“Who are you?” he asked. More looking between them. “Who are you really? You don’t want drugs from me.”

“Smart man,” Tenny said.

Behind Ilya, Fox stood from his own table, flipped his chair around, and straddled it in one smooth movement so he sat at the end of their table.

Ilya startled, swore in Russian.

In a flawless northern American accent, Fox said, “You’re right, T. Heissmart. Let’s just say,” he said to Ilya, “that we’re private contractors, and no friends of your boss. Private contractors who might be able to make all your dreams come true.”

~*~

It was dark.

No, his eyes were shut.

He opened them, which was difficult given the crust at their edges – but, no, it was in fact dark. The AC droned. His skin prickled with the cold of it.

He remembered being lifted. Remembered the table: glimpse of a heavy, stainless cooking island being rolled into the room, something that would have looked more at home in a restaurant.

Or a morgue, maybe.

Its slick, cord surface burned at his shoulders, his back, the backs of his legs. He still had his underwear on…for now. The lines that Rosovsky had carved all down his legs and over his feet throbbed in time with his pulse, little stripes of fire that made the cold of the table and the air feel welcome.

His head ached, and his dry throat ached, and his feet had long since gone numb. A quick test proved his hands were cuffed flush with the table at his hips. His next inhale hurt, a sharp tweak in his ribs that spoke of a punch.

What time was it?

What day was it?

Was Raven frantic? Searching for him?

Or perhaps, wisely, she’d dried her eyes and set her sights on a more appropriate man. One who could slot tidily into her life as it was.

Like Greg Ingles?a voice in the back of his head mocked.

His next breath shuddered on the way in.

Sound of the bolt.

Then light. Blinding, and white, a hot glare directly above him, blasting down into his unshielded eyes. He clamped them shut and turned his head for good measure, unable to bite back a hiss. His eyes burned. And pain flared like needles all down his neck at the sudden movement.

“Aw, did I wake you?” Rosovsky called as he entered. “I’m sorry. How rude of me.”

The door closed with a tomblike slam, and Toly fought to open his eyes again, despite the blurring sting of tears from the light assault. Even if he couldn’t move, or resist, he wanted to know what this bastard planned to do with him.

Click.

Another flash of light, this one less bright, a brief flutter of it off to the side.

Click.Click.

A camera, he realized. Or the camera app on a phone.

Rough fingers gripped his chin, digging in hard, and cranked his head around so the lights were beating down on his face again. Before he had to close his eyes again, he caught a glimpse of Rosovsky smiling down at him, hungry wet gleam in his eyes as he held the phone aloft and snapped another photo.

Then it was the insides of his eyelids, and the cold of the table, and the stinging in his wounds.

Rosovsky clucked over him. “You’re going to have a lovely pair of black eyes once the bruising sets in. You landed on your face when I dropped you, earlier.”