Page 31

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Petyr

T hey’d chained me to a table like an animal.

A single bulb buzzed overhead, swinging slightly in its socket.

The room was all concrete, with sweat-stained walls and a piss-stained floor.

It smelled like metal and mildew. My wrists were raw where the cuffs bit into them, and every muscle in my back ached from the awkward position they’d locked me in.

I tried not to think about Dimitri.

But I failed. Over and over.

Where was he? Had they dragged him off to some different hell? Was he hurt? Bleeding? Alone?

A thousand images stampeded through my head. Dimitri curled in on himself, fists bruised, his soft mouth split open. The sound of his voice when he’d laughed earlier tonight. The warmth of his hand on my shoulder.

Gone. All of it. Like it had never existed.

The door slammed open so hard it rebounded off the wall.

I flinched.

A uniformed man walked in like a boulder rolled downhill.

He had a thick neck, meaty fists, and was sweating through his uniform in thick patches.

His sneer was lazy, practiced. This wasn’t his first interrogation, not even close.

He sat across from me and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the scarred tabletop.

He looked at me like something he’d scrape off his boot.

“Well, well. Look at you,” he said, voice thick with contempt. “You don’t look like much. You don’t look like a man who’d corrupt the youth of our city. But that’s always how it is, isn’t it? The rats hide in plain sight.”

I said nothing.

He tutted and shook his head. “You know, you people are like a disease. One moment you’re slithering around your filthy clubs, humping behind garbage dumpsters, the next you’re crawling into our schools, our factories, and our families.

” His lip curled. “What was your plan, huh? Recruit that pretty boy you were with? Spread your rot like mold on bread?”

Still, I said nothing. But my fingers trembled in the cuffs. Sweat dripped down the back of my neck.

“You’re a virus,” he said flatly. “And I’ve been tasked with containment.”

Then he slapped me.

Hard.

My head snapped sideways, teeth rattling. Pain bloomed across my cheekbone.

I tried to brace myself, but the second blow landed before I could. My vision went white at the edges.

“Who else?” he shouted. “Who else goes to that little faggot temple you call Sanctuary?”

I turned back toward him slowly, my ears ringing, and I tasted blood. “I was just walking with a friend.”

Wrong answer. Another slap. My head hit the table this time, forehead smacking cold metal.

“Liar!” Spit flew from his mouth, thick and hot. It landed on my cheek. I felt it run down, mixing with blood. My arms strained against the cuffs, the metal cutting deeper into my wrists.

My body was betraying me—I could feel it. My bladder was loosening with terror, my breath shallow and erratic. I was going to piss myself, right here like a scared dog. I squeezed my eyes shut.

Stay calm. Stay quiet. Think.

The truth wouldn’t save me.

No one would believe it, anyway. Not here. Not now.

I pressed my forehead to the table, trying to steady my breath, trying to hold on. Then I thought of Vera, and I saw her face. The quiet solidarity in Vera’s eyes, her careful silence over the years. How far she’d gone to protect me.

And now I had to decide: burn the last bridge, or drown.

My voice was quiet. Steady.

“Perhaps you’d like to check with my wife’s parents,” I said. “Andrey Smirnov, and Sofia Smirnova.”

He froze.

Didn’t breathe. Didn’t even blink.

I lifted my head slowly, watching him. He stared at me like I’d just started speaking in tongues. I didn’t repeat myself, because I didn’t need to.

He stood up without another word. The chair scraped back behind him. For a long moment, he just stood there, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Then he turned and walked out of the room.

The door slammed shut behind him.

And I was alone again.

But this time, something had changed.

Had I just saved myself—or signed my death warrant?

* * *

Three hours.

That’s how long they left me chained to that desk after the monstrous bastard walked out.

The bulb buzzed on, and on, and on. I counted every flicker like it might keep me sane.

Somewhere around hour two, my body gave up. I pissed myself. Hot at first. Then it was cold and humiliating. The smell soaked into everything. My clothes, the chair, and my shame.

I tried not to cry.

That part I still had control over. Barely.

But the genuine fear, the kind that chewed marrow from bone, was what they were doing to Dimitri.

Had he cracked?

Had they hurt him?

Had he admitted to loving me?

No. God, even if he had, I wouldn’t blame him. He wasn’t like me. Dimitri didn’t know how to lie. He carried his truth in his chest like a bird that wouldn’t stop singing. That was what I loved about him. And it was what could kill us both.

If he’d told them everything, then the Smirnovs wouldn’t lift a finger for me. They’d hang me out to dry with a smile and call it justice. A pervert. A danger to their daughter. To the State. To decency.

But I’d never stop loving Dimitri.

Even if they dragged me away tomorrow, I’d carry his name in my mouth like a prayer.

The door opened again, but this time, it didn’t slam. It eased open, slowly and carefully. That was worse, somehow. Made my heart thud so hard I thought it might burst.

A woman stepped inside. Police uniform. Stern face. Her nose wrinkled when she looked at me, no doubt catching the stench of fear and piss.

She didn’t look at me long. She just moved forward, unlocked the cuffs. Metal clanked to the table.

“You’re free to go,” she muttered.

That was it. No explanation. No paperwork. Not even a warning.

She turned to leave, and I just sat there, blinking, until she turned back.

“I said go.”

My legs didn’t work at first. I had to grip the edge of the table with both hands to haul myself upright. My knees trembled so badly I almost fell, but I straightened slowly, inch by inch. My back screamed in protest, and my fingers were white on the table’s edge.

I followed her into the hallway like a man just returned from the dead.

The corridor was long, low, gray concrete. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead in intervals, leaving pockets of dimness in between. It smelled like bleach, paper, and coffee. I moved like I was underwater, like I’d left part of myself back in that room, and wasn’t sure I wanted it returned.

Then, at the end of the corridor, I saw him.

Dimitri.

He was being led out of a different hallway by a younger officer. Dimitri’s shoulders were hunched, and his shirt was wrinkled, but he was on his feet. Alive and walking, despite the obvious bruises and cuts covering his face and neck.

My heart stuttered in my chest , and I nearly crumpled with relief.

We didn’t speak, nor were we allowed to. But when his eyes flicked toward mine, I saw it. Fear, yes. But also that flicker of light that only I got to see. The one he tried to hide from everyone else.

They led us both into the lobby.

And that’s when my heart nearly stopped.

Ivan.

Dimitri’s father stood there, coat unbuttoned, eyes bloodshot, his mouth drawn in a flat, furious line. He didn’t look drunk. He didn’t look calm, either. His gaze went from Dimitri to me and then settled on my face like a hammer looking for something soft to crush.

He walked forward with military precision. No hesitation.

I didn’t breathe.

He stopped inches from my face. I smelled the cigarettes on his breath, the old wool of his coat. His eyes were sharp and endless.

“You have a lot of explaining to do,” he said, voice low and cold.

I swallowed hard. My tongue was dry as paper. I couldn’t speak and didn’t dare.

He turned to Dimitri then, looked him over from head to toe, jaw clenching. For a second, I thought he might hit him. But Ivan just let out a long breath, rubbed a hand over his eyes, and said, “Both of you. We’re going home.”

He turned and marched toward the door, not waiting to see if we followed.

I exchanged a look with Dimitri, and nearly wept at the sight of his bloodied face. We walked in silence, side by side, shadows trailing behind us like secrets we could no longer keep.

Outside, the night had turned bitter, and I wished I had my jacket, but had left it in that horrible room. Ivan stood by his blue Lada Samara, its engine running, smoke curling from the exhaust like something dyed inside the engine.

We got in the back seat. Dimitri reached for my hand under the cover of his coat. I let him hold it, just for a second, before letting go.

Ivan didn’t speak as he pulled into the street, eyes forward, hands tight on the wheel.

As the station disappeared behind us, I couldn’t stop the thought from curling through my chest like ice.

Was he taking us home to help us?

Or to bury what we were, permanently?