Demyan downs the bourbon and nods. “Let’s go find Simonov, then.”
Chapter Three
ALINA
I don’t knowhow long I’ve been alone in this room. Hours, I think. It seems like it’s been hours.
I’ve gone from panic to weary acceptance that this is where I’m stuck for now.
But acceptance isn’t giving up, and it’s not adjusting to my situation. I’m just…accepting I’m stuck. My initial panic and fear has dampened into tired dread. It’s either that or shut down from the constant bombarding.
In a way, it’s not that different from all-consuming grief. It fades into tired sadness and slides into the background to allow me to live, sometimes laugh, and then it slams into me when I least expect it.
I think my emotions in this situation will do that, too.
Not in exactly the same way, but if something happens, a sound, the door, someone coming in—there’s an endless array of horrible possibilities—I’m sure it’ll pummel into me.
So for now, I’ll take this acceptance.
I can think like this.
I pace the room. I’ve checked the door, looked for secret doorways in the wall, things I knew weren’t there, but it was something to do.
My list of things I can’t do is long. I can’t figure out where I am, other than some kind of basement that may be used for storage or, considering the sofa and heavy locks on the door, to keep prisoners. I’m too small and weak to overthrow anyone who walks in. And if I do get out…
I don’t know how many are out there, or if I can get to a car or a phone.
There are so many variables.
Too many. As panic starts to shift inside, I move to what I do know.
Demyan’s back, so he’ll be with Ilya.
Neither man will stop at nothing until they have me back.
Melor’s underestimating Ilya. Perhaps overestimating my brother. Don’t get me wrong. Demyan’s deadly, but so is Ilya. And Ilya can change to fit a scenario, more so than my brother.
It’s why Demyan has him as his second, even if they aren’t as close as brothers.
But they aren’t here.
I am.
So what can I do?
I sit on the sofa, reach for the water, and take a careful sip, enough to slake the edge of thirst, not enough to need to pee. I want the water to last.
I’m small and weak, but I can move. I know some self-defense. I can handle a gun, and if I have to, I’ll poke a man’s eyes out and twist his nuts so hard he’ll think I’m ripping them from his body.
These men are big. I’m small.
I can use my smallness. Turn their big bulk against them.
At least, I can try. And if I can get a gun, a knife, whatever, I’ll fucking use it. I swear to god. I’ll imagine the man in front of me pulled that trigger and murdered Max.
And I know that’s what they want to do to Ilya.
So yes. I’ll do it.
