Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 74579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
We've used this room for interrogation. Until my capture, I was the head interrogator. I'm familiar with the way this room is built to absorb the sounds of screams and torment.
"We'll get you what you need in the morning," Demyan says with a frown. "Any idea what tools you'll want?"
"Restraints tonight," I tell him. "Towels. Toiletries, food, and water. Medication from Rothsky. Anything else I'll get on my own."
Demyan frowns at the woman in my arms, his brow furrowing in concern. I look down and realize something strange is happening to Olena. She's no longer quiet in her sedation. Her head falls back, and she moans, perspiration dotting her forehead and spittle forming in the corner of her mouth. I look at her curiously, frowning.
"What'd you give her?"
"Simple barbiturate."
"Hate to complicate shit, man, but she's reacting."
"Fuck. Get Rothsky."
He's right. She isn't sleeping and sedated as she ought to be. She's whimpering and sweating, writhing as if in pain, when a full-body convulsion takes over.
Fuck.
I lay her on the bed and pin her wrists so she doesn't hurt herself.
"What the fuck?" I mutter. It takes mere minutes for Doctor Rothsky, our resident doctor and confidante, to arrive, still in pale blue pajamas. He's a tall, clean-shaven young man with wire-rimmed glasses, wearing a grim expression on his face.
"You sedated her, and she reacted?" he summarizes. I nod. "Who is she?"
I give him a pointed glare, and he shakes his head. "Forget I asked. Type of injection?"
I go through all the details, while he takes her pulse and listens to her heartbeat, then checks her breathing.
If she dies... so soon, before I've had a chance to even enact my plan... this all would be in vain, and I'd have the death of another innocent on my hands.
I push the thought out of my mind the second it comes to me, reminding myself of why I'm here and why I'm doing this at all.
They killed Taya.
I conjure up the image of Taya's body in my arms, lifeless and pale, still bearing the marks of her brutal death. And with that image in mind, I leave Rothsky to do what he has to.
She could die, and if she does, she's a casualty of war. But if she doesn't... she's mine to do with as I please.
This isn't about her.
I will make Yuri Baranov pay for what he's done.
So, I stand with my arms crossed, staring at the woman I've taken prisoner. I ignore the internal worry that plagues me, that I've killed her before I've even had a chance to serve my purpose. That killing Yuri Baranov's daughter will bring more death and destruction to my brotherhood than I intended.
"Will she die?" I ask, trying to keep my voice casual, but failing.
"Not tonight," Rothsky says dryly. "Do you plan on killing her?"
Rothsky has been with us since Dimitri's days, occupying a small apartment nearby. We pay him triple the going rate of a local doctor to keep his own counsel, but he knows who we are and what we do.
"You grow too free, Rothsky," I warn, but I don't answer his question. At my admonition he pales and looks back at the girl.
"I'm sorry," he apologizes meekly. I acknowledge his apology with a clipped nod. "She'll be fine."
The girl's coming to, and her gaze is trained on me. Now that she's been medicated, she doesn't say anything. She only stares at me, betrayal and fear written in her features.
I will not let her weaken me.
"Keep her hydrated," Rothsky says. "I'll return in the morning with another dose of medicine to counteract the sedatives. Soon, she will sleep, and she’ll likely have a headache. I gave her pain relievers for that. Call me if you need anything else."
He leaves, and I'm alone with Olena. Her eyes grow wide when I draw near. I'm glad she's afraid. I'll use that to my advantage.
I sit on the side of her bed, the mattress sagging under my weight. "You reacted to the medication I gave you," I tell her. "How do you feel?"
"Drugged," she says thickly. "My head hurts. My tongue is too tight. And I hate you."
I ignore the last statement as I pull her onto my lap to undress her.
"Come here," I tell her, dragging her roughly to me and yanking up her blouse. "There will be no need for clothing here. You may rest and we'll talk more in the morning." I'll bare her and cuff her so she knows she's at my mercy. She can spout whatever hatred she wants at me, but it won't change anything.
It takes her a second to realize I'm undressing her. "Wait!" she says, helplessly pulling at the fabric before I tear it off her. It's as easy to restrain her hands as it would be to hold a child. I capture both her wrists in one motion and pin them to my chest.