The man with the tattooed hands frowned, then turned to speak rapid Russian with the others.
I caught Artem's name several times, something cold slithering down my spine each time I heard it.
Were they calling him? Asking permission? I bristled with indignation at the mere thought of it.
After what seemed like an eternity, they nodded. One of the men stepped forward to check the communal bathroom while I ducked into my room to gather my things.
The small blessing was that, with the exception of the door, all evidence of my earlier violent kidnapping had been cleaned up. The overturned desk was righted, the broken lamp removed, and even the blood—my blood—had been wiped from the floor. It was as if the whole thing had never happened. As if I had imagined it all.
I grabbed my shower caddy with shaking hands, along with a pair of leggings and an oversized sweater. Simple clothes that wouldn't aggravate my shoulder. Clean clothes that didn't smell like blood and my father's cigarettes.
As I walked down the narrow hallway with its thick, cinder-block walls painted an institutional beige, one of Artem's men followed close behind. His footsteps echoed in the empty corridor, a constant reminder that I wasn't alone.
"I'm perfectly fine to shower without a guard," I said, irritation flaring through my exhaustion.
He shrugged, his expression impassive. "Boss's orders."
Boss's orders.I bit back a hysterical laugh.
Less than twelve hours ago, I'd been a somewhat normal college student.
Now I was property being guarded on the orders of a mafia boss.
My new shadow took up a position outside the bathroom door as I entered.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, harsh and unforgiving on my battered reflection in the mirror. A stranger stared back at me. Pale face. Hollow eyes ringed with dark circles. A bruise blooming across my cheekbone where my father struck me. My hair hanging in limp, tangled waves, still matted with sweat and grime.
I turned away from the mirror, unable to look at myself any longer.
I hissed when the warm water hit my chilled skin, the initial shock giving way to blessed relief. I cranked the heat higher, letting the scalding water turn my skin pink. One perk of showering before any of my classmates woke up—all the hot water was mine.
The warmth seeped into my muscles, temporarily dulling the worst of the pain in my shoulder. I tested it gingerly, rotating it slightly. Not as agonizing as before, but a deep, throbbing ache had settled in. I wondered vaguely if it had been properly set back in place or if I'd need surgery. Another thing to worry about later.
Right now, all I wanted was to wash away the last few hours. I scrubbed my skin until it was raw, trying to remove any trace of my father's touch, of the ropes that had bound me, of the trunk’s grime and the motor oil stench that had sunk into my pores, of the cabin's musty smell that clung to my hair.
But no matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn't wash away the memory of Artem's eyes. The way they'd pierced through me, seeing everything I tried to hide.
Tell me what you want, princess.
No one had ever asked me that before. No one had ever cared.
I shut off the water with more force than necessary, banishing the thought. Whatever game Artem Ivanov was playing, I couldn't afford to be a pawn in it. I'd survived this long by keeping my head down and my emotions locked away. I wasn't about to change that now.
I slipped on my leggings and then carefully eased my oversized sweater over my head and my arms down the sleeves, the soft fabric a small comfort against my sensitized skin. My wet hair dripped down my back, sending a chill through me that had nothing to do with the temperature.
By the time I returned to my dorm room, the door had been fixed, and a new man had arrived. He was older, maybe in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair that stuck up in all directions and wire-rimmed glasses that sat crooked on his nose. He had the disheveled air of someone who had been dragged out of bed—which, given the early hour, he probably had been.
"Miss Zaitseva," he said in a thick Russian accent, "I am Dr. Petrov. I need to examine your shoulder."
I recognized the type immediately. A "concierge" doctor who existed in that gray area of probably having gone to medical school but whose license was revoked for one reason or another, now servicing the mafia for cash. My father had employed a similar doctor.
"It's fine," I said automatically, backing toward my bed. "It's just a little sore."
His eyebrows shot up. "A dislocated shoulder is not 'fine.' It needs proper examination and treatment."
He approached with his medical bag, and I reluctantly sat on the edge of my bed. His hands were gentle as he probed my shoulder, but even the lightest touch sent white-hot pain shooting down my arm.
"The joint has been expertly reset, but there is still significant swelling and possible soft tissue damage," he muttered, more to himself than to me. "I will give you something for pain and inflammation."
