Page 39 of Pay the Piper

“Are you ready for this cock, Abby? You’ve been such a good girl for me and I—”

My world cracks as she lets out another gasp, and another, looking like a fish trying to breathe out of water. Her eyes are glazed with fear, not lust, and locked over my shoulder, terrified of something, or someone, from another time. Instead of trembling with pleasure, she’s as still as a statue. Only the rapid rise and fall of her chest expresses her panic, and I swallow the bile that rises in my throat.

Moving quickly, automatically, I settle into a routine that is second nature, even after all these years. Decades later, I think I know exactly what Abby’s remembering, and I can’t do anything but keep moving as the box of memories I never open comes tumbling off its shelf.

The thud is what wakes me. I’m a deep sleeper. Despite the best efforts of the men of the Taranov Bratva to train me for as long as I can remember, it takes a hell of a lot to keep me from getting a full eight hours. It’s not because I don’t try my best, either. I know in this business that it’ll shorten my lifespan if I can’t learn to sleep with one eye and both ears open. At the very least, it’ll be a much smaller pool of positions I’m eligible for. Nobody wants to be on a recon team with a boy who’s dead to the world as soon as his head hits the pillow.

Not a boy now, Misha. You’re thirteen. You got through your initiation, and you’re on your way to being a full-fledged member of the most powerful organization in the city. You’re a man. Stop thinking of yourself as a boy.

I had been dreaming, which is odd for me, and the subject was batshit enough that I knew the entire time it couldn’t be real. Mila and I were older, maybe a few years, and wherever we were wasn’t fucking Russia. It was sunny, we weren’t buried in fur coats and hats, and we were laughing, which happens rarely in real life these days.

“Misha, come on. We’re going to be late!”

“Late for what?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten. Get on!”

Suddenly, I’m on a motorcycle behind Mila as she races around tight curves. The road is parallel to the ocean, and we must be facing West because the sun is setting over the water. I’m holding on for dear life when she screeches to a halt.

“I’m never riding with you again. I knew us getting this thing was a bad fucking idea.”

“Look!”

My protests fade as I shut up and take in what she’s pointing at. Dolphins. Jumping and splashing in the water, the backdrop of the sunset providing an otherworldly glow.

“Holy shit.”

“I know. We made it, Misha. We fucking made it.”

A sob, now, proving that the thud hadn’t been a part of my dream. My dream where it isn’t fucking cold and I don’t hate every part of my life that doesn’t involve killing or Mila. Mila, who I’ve known for as long as I’ve been old enough to remember. Mila, who befriended me instantly when I arrived on the Taranov doorstep as payment for a check my deadbeat father couldn’t cash. A scrawny, illiterate child who could have cost more to board and train than they would ever get out of me.

But she fought for me, even then, and her grandfather, the Pakhan, let her keep me as a pet. He told me that if I ever laid a hand on her, I’d be worse than dead for the rest of what he would ensure would be a very long life. I didn’t understand what he meant then, but now, it’s gross to even think about. She’s more of a sister to me than anything, maybe even a twin. I swear it’s like we were separated at birth, and her grandfather embedded in me the absolute need to protect her. It’s unsettling to me when she goes to train alone, and I never see her for days afterward. This has been her longest absence yet, and when I hear her, I’m as awake as I’ve ever been.

“Misha.”

It’s barely a whisper, but it’s enough for me to know that something is terribly wrong. I’m more awake than I’ve ever been as I climb down from the top bunk I’ve always favored. Having my own room in the Taranov compound is a recent luxury, since they haven’t yet chosen a recruit for me to mentor. Even though it isn’t big, it’s all mine, with a desk and a simple bathroom attached. No fleas, plenty of food…I’m always aware that I’m living larger than I could have ever hoped for.

The thud must have been Mila’s back against my bedroom door as she fell back against it after letting herself in, and I lock it on instinct as I take her in.

Whatever sob she let out moments ago must have been the last of the tears she had in her, because she’s catatonic as I kneel. Eyes staring into space, a tremble every few seconds, breaths that are coming so fast I know she’ll pass out if she can’t stop.

“Hey,” I say, softly enough that I almost worry she doesn’t hear me. “Mila. It’s me. You made it to me, okay. You’re okay. Can you tell me what happened? Are you hurt?”

Finally, her gaze focuses, and instead of nothing behind her eyes, I see…death. Despair. It’s so much worse than the blank stare from before that I almost wish she’d look anywhere else. But I know I need to see every bit of her pain so I can try to take as much of it away as possible. And eventually, so that I can seek revenge on whoever did this to her.

“They took it. I didn’t want it, especially not with him. But they cut it and took it all out.”

Before I can ask what happened, she’s sobbing again, begging me for a million things at once, and I plan to give her all of them. I briefly feel a swell of panic at not knowing what to do, but a deep breath locks me in. I know exactly what to do. Take care of Mila.

The scalding shower she takes is torture, watching her scratch and claw at her skin while she whispers under her breath. I never take my eyes off her, waiting for her to need something or for her shaking legs to finally give out from underneath her. We’ve never hidden our bodies from each other, and it’s a testament to my belief that we’re twin souls born to different mothers that neither of us has ever felt a single hint of attraction to the other. She’s my partner in crime, my sister.

When she collapses into the tub, crying and pulling me in, fully clothed, to sit behind her and hold her, I hiss at the heat. This is the first time I’ve ever cursed the compound’s endless hot water, and I realize we need to cool her off. She’s been in here way too long.

“Mila,” I say gently, squeezing her tightly to my chest. “We need to get out of the tub, okay? Let me dry you off, and you can have my favorite shirt to get cozy in.”

She shudders violently, and I curse myself for making a mistake. I’m not even sure what’s happening, but I thought I was doing a pretty good job.

“Okay, but you’ll have to help me out. I don’t think I can stand.”