Page 147 of The Bratva Sinner

“You’ll stay here,” Sergei says. “Where it’s safe. Where he put you.”

“He put me here so I could get out. I’m out.” I step forward. I’m shorter than both of them by at least a foot, and I don’t care evena little bit. “I know what I’m walking into. I know the layout of that building. I’m an asset, not a liability. Take me with you.”

I feel the house holding its breath.

"You're also the reason he's in there," Sergei says quietly. "Don't make it worse."

Nikolai looks at his brother and then snaps his fingers. Two men the size of houses step forward and grab me.

“You’ll do what you’re told,” Sergei says. “We’ll bring our brother home.”

“No!” I scream and thrash as the two men haul me to the same room I was put in the first time I came to this house.

They shove me inside and lock the door as I scream and kick. My heart is shredding in my chest. I grab anything I can find and smash it against the door.

Nothing works.

I sink to the floor and let the helplessness pull me down.

I’ve lost the only person who’s ever truly loved me. Loving me is deadly.

I don’t know how much time has passed when the door opens. I jump to my feet, ready to kick the shit out of the assholes who put me in here.

It’s Cinder. She puts a finger to her lips, and I nod. She slips into the room, wedging her foot in the door to keep it from closing.

"Nobody ever saved anybody by locking them in a room. I know that from experience." She pulls a key from her bra. "Promise me you won't get yourself killed."

She reaches behind her and hands me a pistol. “You know where you’re going?”

“I do. How long ago did they leave?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Thank you!”

I’m out the door before she can say another word. I should let the men handle it. This is what they do.

But every instinct I have is screaming at me that I have to be there.

42

Maksim

The chair they’ve zip-tied me to is bolted to the floor. I stopped trying to knock it over and opted to save my energy. It feels like I’ve been here for days, but it’s only been hours. I’m barely conscious. I have to focus on staying awake. I can’t fight back or run.

I have to take it.

They work in shifts. Two men. One stays near the door, and one does the actual work. They’re not creative about it. Fists, mostly, with the occasional open palm across the side of my head. The one near the door watches with the detached professionalism of a man clocking in for a shift at a job he neither loves nor hates.

They’re not trying to do any real damage; they’re just fucking me up to remind me who’s in control. The real torture is yet to come. They’re just getting warmed up.

My left eye is swelling shut. My bottom lip split during the second round and hasn’t stopped bleeding. My ribs are bruised, but I don’t think they’re broken.

I count the strikes. It gives my brain something to do besides register the pain.

Seventeen. Eighteen.

The one doing the hitting steps back and shakes out his hand. He’s tired. I spit blood onto the concrete floor and look at the single bulb overhead. It’s still buzzing, and I find it oddly comforting. I can hear it, which means I’m still alive and conscious.