Page 30

SANDY

The cell smells like rust and mildew, and the mattress beneath me is so thin it might as well be a sheet draped over concrete.

I sit at its edge, the frame groaning beneath my weight, my hands resting loosely behind my back, carefully positioned to appear bound.

The broken spring I used to slice through the zip tie digs into my palm, cold and slick with a faint smear of my blood.

I fight to keep my breathing even, my face impassive. The baby flutters inside me, a tiny reassurance that I’m not alone in this nightmare. I place my free hand protectively over my belly when I’m sure no one is watching through the dirty window in the door.

“We will get out of this,” I whisper to my unborn child. “Your father is coming for us, and I am not going to give up.”

The sound of approaching footsteps makes me quickly resume my position, hands behind my back, shoulders slumped in feigned defeat.

The metal door groans open with a shrill squeal, and a man steps into view.

He has a thick neck, rotting teeth, and a smile that looks better suited for prison.

I recognize him from earlier. He is one of Morozov's lackeys who enjoys his job too much.

“Morning, princess,” he sneers, unlocking the cell with a slow, deliberate click. “Brought you a little something.”

He holds up a bottle of water like a gift from the gods.

I don’t move. Don’t flinch. Just blink slowly, watching him from beneath lowered lashes. My fingers tighten around the spring, its jagged edge pressing into my skin. I need him closer.

He steps inside and kicks the door closed with the heel of his boot. The sound of it latching sends a spike of adrenaline through me. He drops the bottle on the floor with a loud clack.

“You could say thank you,” he snarls, stepping closer. His eyes roam, lingering too long on my chest. “Or better yet...” His hand reaches out, brushing a lock of hair behind my ear. “You could say thank you some other way.”

His fingers trail down the side of my face. I don’t recoil. I want to. I want to break his fingers one by one. But I force myself to stay still, to play the frightened captive.

“Shouldn't I cut that little tie off your wrists first?” he asks, chuckling. “Or maybe you like it this way.”

He crouches in front of me, hands on his knees, his foul breath wafting over my face as he leans in. “Bet you are real sweet under all that attitude.”

His hand slips down, grazing my thigh, moving higher.

That’s when I strike.

With a scream ripped straight from the pit of my lungs, I lunge, swinging the broken mattress spring in a wide arc. The jagged end slashes across his face, from cheek to jaw, splitting skin like butter. He roars in pain, stumbling backward, blood gushing in dark rivers down his neck.

“You bitch!” he thunders, clutching his face. “You fucking bitch!”

He charges, one hand raised, the other still pressed to the wound. But he doesn’t make it.

The crack of a gunshot is deafening in the tiny cell. The man jerks mid-stride, eyes wide before crumpling to the floor in a boneless heap.

Behind him, in the doorway, stands Morozov. Smoke curls from the end of the gun in his hand. He steps forward, the look in his eyes as dead as the man bleeding out at my feet.

“I apologize,” Morozov says calmly as if we are discussing dinner reservations. “He was warned not to touch what belongs to me.”

My stomach turns. The casual way he executed his own man chills me to the bone. This is not a person who values human life.

He steps over the body like it’s a rug and approaches me. I back away until I hit the wall, breathing hard, the spring still clenched in my fist. Blood drips from its point, mixing with my own.

“You are insane,” I hiss. “You are fucking insane.”

“Insane?” He chuckles, setting the gun down on the small table in the corner. “No, sweetheart. I’m focused and I know exactly what I want.” His eyes drop to my belly. “And what I will take.”

He reaches for me, brushing the blood-spattered sleeve of my T-shirt. I slap his hand away. Hard.

He doesn’t flinch. If anything, it excites him.

“I like a woman with fire. But you will learn,” he murmurs, seizing my jaw in one hand and yanking my face up to his. “The only person who touches you is me. You can fight. You can bleed. But in the end, you are mine.”

He crushes his lips against mine, and the taste that meets my tongue is rot and corruption, like kissing something already dead. I sink my teeth into him without hesitation, biting down until the copper tang of his blood floods my mouth.

With a roar, he backhands me across the face. I hit the floor, cheek stinging, mouth already swelling. The baby moves inside me, responding to the surge of adrenaline flooding my system.

“You fucking little whore,” he growls, looming over me. “You think this is pain? You think you have seen suffering? You have not even scratched the surface.”

He crouches beside me, seizing my wrist and twisting until a cry rips from my throat. Before I can catch my breath, his hand tangles in my hair and yanks me to my feet, only to send me crashing back with another savage backhand.

I hit the mattress hard, copper flooding my mouth. Blood spills from my lips and splatters onto the floor.

“I was going to kill that bastard’s brat,” he snarls, looming over me like a demon. “But now? I’ll wait. Let you carry it to term and then rip it from your womb with my bare hands.”

A choked gasp escapes as I curl protectively around my belly, instinct eclipsing fear.

He leans down, fingers digging into my jaw, forcing my face to his. Without thinking, I rake my nails across his cheek, shoving him away.

“ Blyat ! You bitch!” he howls, stumbling back, staring at the blood smeared across his fingertips like it shocks him more than the pain.

Rage twists his face. With a snarl, he rears back and drives his boot into my ribs. Agony explodes through my side, stealing the breath from my lungs as I collapse, gasping and writhing on the cold, blood-slick floor.

He adjusts his suit, his breath still ragged. “Enjoy the time you have left with your baby, Sandy. Because the moment it is born...” His voice turns to ice. “It is gone.”

Then he turns and walks out, leaving me trembling on the floor. Alone with the body of the man he killed.

The cell feels smaller now, its walls closing in as my situation sinks deeper into my mind.

Blood trickles from the corner of my mouth, metallic and warm against my tongue.

I press my fingertips to my swollen lip, wincing as pain radiates through my face.

My ribs ache, but it is the terror for my unborn child that twists like a knife in my chest.

Time seems to stand still as I lay curled on the concrete floor, one arm wrapped protectively around my belly, the other still clutching the blood-slick spring that gave me a moment's victory before everything went so horribly wrong.

The baby shifts inside me, a gentle roll that brings tears to my eyes.

“I know, little one,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “I know you're scared, too.”

The dead man's eyes stare at the ceiling, already glazed and vacant. Blood pools beneath his head, inching across the concrete floor in a slow, crimson tide. I force myself to look away as bile rises in my throat. I’ve seen violence before and even caused it moments ago with my makeshift weapon.

Still, the casual brutality with which Morozov executed his own man sends a bolt of terror through me.

I pull myself to my knees, ignoring the throbbing pain in my wrist where Morozov twisted it. Survival means staying calm and thinking clearly. I force myself to stand, my legs trembling beneath me. I press my hand against the wall for support, leaving a smear of blood on the grimy surface.

The bottle of water still lies on the floor. I pick it up, unscrew the cap with shaking hands, and take a small sip. The liquid is lukewarm but eases the burning in my throat. I pour a little into my palm and wipe at the blood on my face, the water turning pink as I try to clean myself.

“What now?” I ask myself aloud, needing to hear any voice, even my own.

The dead man on the floor draws my attention again. I force myself to approach him, to search his pockets despite the revulsion crawling across my skin. My fingers tremble as I pat his jacket, finding nothing in the front pockets. I reach into his back pocket and feel something solid. A phone.

Hope surges through me so violently that I nearly cry out. I pull the device free, only to feel that hope crumble to dust in my hands. The screen is shattered and completely black. I press the power button repeatedly, desperately, but nothing happens. It is as dead as its owner.

I slump back against the wall, clutching the useless phone. The tears I'd been fighting finally spill over, hot trails cutting through the grime on my cheeks. I allow myself exactly thirty seconds to cry, counting each second in my head, before wiping my face with determination.

“Get it together,” I tell myself firmly. “You're not dead yet.”

I tuck the broken phone under the thin mattress. Useless as it is, perhaps I can salvage parts from it and find something else to use as a weapon or tool. The spring served me well, but I need more.

My ribs pulse with each breath, a deep, bruising ache radiating from where Morozov’s boot had landed. I press my fingers gently to my side, wincing at the sharp stab of pain. Likely fractured, but I’m hoping they’re just badly bruised. Every movement lights a fresh fire beneath my skin.

Sweat beads on my forehead despite the chill in the air. My brain feels foggy, thoughts slipping through my fingers like smoke. When was the last time I'd eaten? Twenty-four hours ago? Longer? The baby needs nourishment. I need strength.

I force myself to return to the thin mattress, sitting on its edge. I need to conserve energy to think. The bottle of water is clutched in my hand like a precious gem. I take small, measured sips, savoring each one, knowing it might be all I receive for the day.

The sound of footsteps in the distance makes my entire body rigid.

I hide the spring beneath my thigh and assume the position of defeat once more, head bowed.

The footsteps grow louder, then pause outside my cell.

I fix my gaze on the floor, my heart thundering so loudly I’m certain whoever is there can hear it.

“Clean this mess up,” Morozov's cold voice commands, directed at someone I can’t see. “And bring her food. I want her properly nourished before I rip that bastard baby out of her.”

Rage boils beneath my skin, fierce and hot.

“Yes, sir,” a new voice replies.

Heavy footsteps retreat down the hall. Morozov is leaving but sending others in his place. I remain motionless, counting my heartbeats, trying to slow my breathing.

Minutes later, two men enter the cell. One is young, barely out of his teens, with a face that hasn't yet hardened into the cruelty of his profession. The other is older, battle-scarred, with eyes that have witnessed too much violence to retain humanity.

“Jesus,” the younger one mutters, looking at the body. “Boss did this?”

“Shut up and grab his legs,” the older man snaps. “You,” he addresses me without looking at me directly. “Stay where you are if you don't want the same.”

I don’t respond, don’t move. Just watch through lowered lashes as they heave the dead man between them. Blood drips from the corpse as they carry it out, leaving a trail of crimson droplets across the concrete floor. The scent of blood fills the air, making my stomach turn.