Chapter 60: Chapter Five

Andrei

And it was so easy it annoyed me when others didn’t catch on, when they didn’t see the slight movement of someone’s fingers, the rough exhale, or the darting eyes.

This woman—this girl who I refused to call by name—had too many to count.

And for some reason, it made me want to study her more, to actually look into her haunted eyes and ask her why she hugged herself when it was apparent she wanted nobody to comfort her.

Why her eyes widened in wonder when she walked down the hall.

Why she blushed when she saw all the nude paintings.

Fucking blushed like she hadn’t been on the receiving end of absolute hell at her brother’s hand.

It was tempting.

Too tempting.

I didn’t like it, and I didn’t know how to deal with it, how to compartmentalize my feelings and do my damn job like the rest of the grown-ups I had to work with.

Bastards.

They’d be entertained by my lack of finesse.

Shit, I was entertained, and I’d been in her presence all but five minutes.

The doors closed with finality behind me. My rooms might look safe, but they were built with the same sin. The same prison that kept her here kept me here too.

I could feel her soft intake of breath.

“Don’t speak,” I interrupted.

She listened.

I squeezed my eyes shut and moved down the hall toward the kitchen. She would be hungry. The least I could do was feed her before I told her what I was going to do with her.

The leather of my gloves tightened around my knuckles as I held my fingers tight against my palm and measured my steps.

Numbers helped; they gave me something else to focus on. Yes, the thirty-two and a half steps to the kitchen cleared my mind in a way that would alarm any sane person.

It kept my mind off her dark hair.

Off the way she still smelled—clean, even though I knew she was dirty in more ways than one.

“Come,” I barked when I didn’t hear her soft footsteps behind me, and then the sound of feet slamming against the cement floor as she fought to catch up to me.

Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen—

“Where are you taking me?”

I stopped suddenly.

She slammed into my back.

She was very soft, wasn’t she?

Shit.

This was why it never got personal.

Why I never learned their names.

As far as I was concerned, she was girl number six hundred and thirty-two.

And it would stay that way.

It had to.

Nobody in.

Ever.

Because the worst thing the monster could do was believe he could be anything but what he was born to be.

This is where the Italians and I had different beliefs.

They truly believed that love saved.

But I knew the truth — it damned you more than any of the other deadly sins, because love was the only thing in this world that demanded everything and promised nothing.

Love was a lie.

“You need to eat,” I finally said in a sharp voice.

“What’s your na—”

“—no names.” I said through clenched teeth. “This is where you say thank you.”

“Th-thank you?” she repeated in disbelief.

“Yes,” I glanced over my shoulder and gave her a grin I knew would make her want to run in the opposite direction, a grin that a girl like her was probably used to considering how pretty she was, it was a promising grin one that said I would act against her if that’s what it took to get what I wanted, it was a grin of a man who had no need for a moral compass, a man who would stop at nothing, destroy everything, kill.

I could feel her body tense.

Her dirty right foot tapped against the cement floor. It was bleeding, her pink nail polish looked ridiculous against the darkness of the room, of the building itself.

Hell, it was almost as bad as the cupcake wasn’t it?

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“For?”

“Feeding me.”

“Again.”

“What?”

“I need you to say it again, and this time, I need you to mean it, six thirty-two.”

“Six thirty-two? My name is—”

“The minute you were brought here, you lost your name. You’re nothing but a fucking number. Now, mean it or I’m going to have to lock up your ankles again and I hate it when a product is bloody.

She let out a gasp.

Good. Hate me.

It’s the only way she’ll live.

If she hates more than she hopes.

“Thank you.” Her voice was stronger now—irritated, angry.

Torturing her more.

Hope was the cruelest word in the human language, and giving her any was worse than death.

“That’s better,” I said in a clipped voice as I turned back in the direction of the kitchen.

Eighteen.

Nineteen.

The kitchen was in view.

It was the only thing in the entire apartment at the club that had anything personal in it—personal of mine at least.

Food was a decadence.

Extra.

I’d been starved so much when I was little, purposely, that I made a promise to myself that I would never be without the best of everything.

And I paid to get it shipped to me on a weekly basis.

No guilt.

No regrets.

My directions were always specific.

Eating was my sex.

My lover.

My life.

Damn it, also probably why Tex knew they had me every time I was invited for family dinner.

Fucking Chase’s pasta.

I almost groaned aloud, snapping myself out of what I was supposed to be doing.

Business.

Shit.

I nodded toward the large granite breakfast bar.

“Grab a plate, make sure it’s full, two handfuls of protein, three handfuls of fruit and vegetables, add some fat, and if you’re drinking, drink everything straight.

The first time in a decade.

I showed my tell.

To a woman whose name I refused to know.

To a woman I would sell.

To a woman who was already dead.

She didn’t see it, how could she?

But I felt it, spread like a cold dread throughout my body.

For one brief second, hardly noticeable to the human eye, I let the darkness fall.

And I, Andrei Petrov.

Hoped.

EPISODE: 71: Chapter Six

Alice

The room was extravagant. No, it was more than that—it was something out of a dream, with long flowing red curtains that hid what I assumed were the only windows in the place.

Large ornate furniture that looked like it had once been in a castle before getting shipped here, in colors of blacks and deep browns that somehow all fit.

I grew up around money.

This wasn’t normal money.

It was beyond that, way beyond.

This was the stuff you see on TV and have a hard time believing is true.

At least his hands weren’t on me.

At least I was safe from him.

Even if that meant I was getting chained to something else, anything would be better, right?

Unless they were feeding me to fatten me up before the virgin sacrifice. I knew I was getting hysterical when that thought actually made me laugh.

Joke’s on them. I wasn’t a virgin—at least not technically, even though medically I was. To be a virgin meant you were pure, untouched, right?

I was dirty. Used.

If they were looking to find anything clean or pure in me, they would need to look somewhere else.

I felt that loss every time I looked in the mirror and saw the shadows beneath my eyes and the pain in the way I smiled.

He wasn’t looking at me anymore.

Six thirty-two.

I wondered if he had a number too or if that was his way of putting me in my place. Regardless, he was going to have to try harder to scare me when feeding me like this.

Two handfuls of veggies.

Fruits.

Another handful of protein.

Some nuts for fat.

And I reached for the shot glasses.

No wine for this girl.

The only part he never touched.

My lips.

So, in a way, it was the only part that was both pure and sinful at the same time.

I pulled out a chair, ready to sit, when his hand came flying through the air jerking the chair from my grip.

Cold blue eyes rested on me in a fury that was so palpable I stepped back and immediately started searching for exits.

“Those aren’t windows.” His choice of words. “And leaving only makes you thinner.”

I shuddered as shame washed over me. It wasn’t my fault—I did nothing wrong except for being born into the wrong family at the wrong time.

Wartime.

And for that, I would always hate my father for having a girl—me.

And hate my brother for trying to take what wasn’t his to take.

And I’d dream of the monsters that freed me.

And pray to see them again, even in this hell.

I reached for the chair again.

He sighed like he was irritated with me but used no words.

I almost expected him to slap me, but he kept his grip firm on the chair and then in a low voice said, “This chair cost more than your life. I suggest you stand.”

Stand on bloody feet.

Stand while he watched me eat.

Stand and feel humiliation that I was this gross, ratty, abused thing while he told me he valued a chair over my existence.

I didn’t cry.

I was good at that now.

Of telling myself it wasn’t worth the dehydration.

Of believing that it wouldn’t do anything except for get me more attention I didn’t want.

I nodded my head once, not trusting my voice not to shake, and set my plate on the table and ate in silence while he watched.

I washed down the broccoli and cheese with a shot of vodka, reached for bread and dipped it in the vegetable soup, and let out a moan before realizing I still had an audience.

He didn’t so much as flinch.

So, I kept eating.

I ate the rest of my cheese and soup.

I grabbed the nuts and took another shot of vodka, relishing the burn as it cleansed my mouth.

My plate was nearly empty.

I was already full and wasn’t sure how my body would react to finally getting nourishment, so I took a step back and then grabbed my plate, walked around the counter, and started washing it.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked in a lethal tone that nearly had me dropping the plate in the sink.

“Uh…” I blinked up at him, still stunned that he was so striking, so young.

The guy should be studying in college or modeling or acting or doing anything but watching in disbelief as I washed my own plate.

He actually grinned at that. “I don’t wash plates.”

Of course he didn’t. Men like him paid people to wash plates and buy expensive chairs, and food.

He probably paid someone to chew for him too.

“I wasn’t suggesting you did, I just wanted to save whoever it was the time.”

“Tell me, six thirty-two,” he rounded the bar.

It was then that I realized how tall he was—at least five inches taller than me, obviously packed with muscle that made him look like he was prowling instead of stepping.

“No,” I said quickly as he moved behind me with such grace that I had a hard time focusing on the plate, on the tension in the room. “I was always in charge of dishes.”

“Hmm.” He seemed to like that answer. “So, you don’t mind working?”

What was he getting at?

“N-no.” I needed to get a grip. “I like working. It’s the sitting trapped in a room that drives me crazy.”

He was quiet.

Too quiet.

“And spas, how do you feel about spas?”

“I’ve never been,” I said honestly.

My family didn’t want to pay for me to get anything done that wouldn’t be needed, especially if I was being saved as a last-ditch effort to toss at one of the other five families for peace.

And that’s all I knew.

Other than the fact that they would find great joy in marrying me off to a monster already used.

I shoved the shame deep down, away from the present, away from the conversation.

“I can tell,” he finally said, hitting what was left of my pride as I continued to wash a dish that was already clean, not knowing what else to do. “And laundry, how do you feel about laundry?”

Was this a job interview?

“I’ve done laundry, yes.”

“Have you ever had a job outside your pathetic house in the suburbs?”

I froze.

He knew where I lived.

Which means he knew who I was.

He knew my name.

Not just six thirty-two.

He knew.

And that meant I was already dead, didn’t it?

He wasn’t Italian.

But they would find me.

The monsters would find me.

And it would finally end.

I had nothing left to lose, so I turned and said, “I’m a De Lange, which you already—”

He cupped a hand over my mouth and shook his head slowly. “Utter that name one more time, and I’m going to be given no choice, do you understand?”

I nodded my head slowly as tears filled my eyes. He was close, too close.

And then he stepped back.

“I may be ruthless, I may be a killer, I may be a lot of things, six thirty-two, but what I am not, what I will never be, is a fucking rapist.” His eyes were cold.

“Safe from what?”

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” He shrugged like it made him sad. “Maybe if they like you enough as six thirty-two, they won’t kill you for what you are.”

“A D—”

“Stop.”

With a sigh, he pointed down the hall. “Shower on the right, bedroom connected to that same bathroom. No escape, you’re still in prison. There’s only one difference now.”

“What’s that?”

He licked his lips and tilted his head, a predatory smile crossed his features as he whispered, “It’s mine.”