Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I'm borrowing her characters and giving them some guns (again).
Unbeta'd, unedited.
Sometimes consciousness is its own kind of battle.
I drift for days.
Disoriented and untethered, I float in a sea of black in a body that feels yet refuses to move.
Every now and then, I register the tickle of cotton and the cool press of metal. Cold, professional hands probe my head and midsection. Almost like clockwork, the sharp pinch of a needle follows, and then fire scorches through my veins, obliterating what measure of cognizance I've reclaimed.
Other times, when it's quiet, fingertips – warm, trembling, and smelling of a sweet but sophisticated, masculine cologne – gently trace my cheekbones and lips.
Like touch, sound ebbs and flows, muffled and distorted like I'm underwater. Sometimes, I pick out the hum of voices. Pitched low and with lilting cadences nowhere close to English, they're somehow familiar and not. Tone bleeds through more than the actual words, and one in particular murmurs a litany of fury, worry, and then some other emotion that I can't quite decipher.
Everything about this is fucking disturbing, and somewhere in the back of my head, I know I should be afraid. But whatever's coursing through my body muffles that, too, and all I can do is wait.
At some point, I rouse to one of those voices.
"Mitya, chto ty nashel?" someone asks. There's a long beat of icy silence, punctuated by a steady, electronic beep pinging in the background. A throat clears somewhere off to my left, but before that one can get out a single word, flesh smacks against wood hard enough to echo. "Otvechay!"
Ah, hello, Misha.
It takes my foggy brain a second to translate, and when the words finally unravel, I wonder what Aronov has Dmitri looking for. Either way, judging by the rising volume and the razor-sharp edge riding Aronov's command, he's livid.
Dmitri finally replies. He's further away, maybe on the other side of the room, and all I can make out is a careful, hesitant, "Budet luchshe, yesli vy sami posmotrite."
Aronov grunts in irritation. Nonetheless, a chair creaks, and then leather raps against stone as he walks toward the other man and whatever he's brought.
"Chto eto?" Aronov snaps.
Everything stills.
There's the telltale click-clack of a long-range rifle I'd recognize anywhere. A few seconds later, I hear the metallic zing of a slide racking, and it's not just any slide either.
No, it's my slide, as in my Glock.
A bottle of pills rattles, and my gut goes into freefall.
Shit.
"Oruzhiye bylo v yeye starykh komnatakh.Tabletki byli v yeye sumochke," Dmitri says, still oh-so-carefully, and then he pauses, letting that little revelation sink in.
The silence in the room turns deafening, and even in my muted, drugged-up state, I can feel the crackle in the air. It's like a live wire singeing my nerve endings, and as I sense Aronov's gaze swinging toward me, the hair on my arms stands on end.
After what feels like a short forever, Dmitri quietly asks, "Vy khotite, chtoby ya yeyo ubil?"
There's another beat of crackling silence, where I hold my breath and wait for the death sentence I know is coming.
Glass abruptly shatters against the wall in a violent explosion. A table flips on its top, clattering against the floor and scattering my weapons, and then Aronov growls out a furious, "Ubiraysya!"
The next time I wake up, I wake up.
Nauseated from the lingering narcotics, I inhale a slow, steady breath and count back from sixty. Satisfied I'm not going to hurl – at least not immediately – I open my eyes to a dimly lit, stone and plaster room. As my eyes gradually adjust, some of the dizziness begins to fade, and the fog clouding my brain finally starts to lift.
Unsurprisingly, in its place is pain.
Coupled with the array of modern hospital equipment lining the walls, the tightness in my abdominal wall and lower back says I've been mended by a pro. Still, every muscle in my body aches, and my head throbs like I've been clobbered by a Mack truck.
Or maybe Rosalie on one of her pissier days.
Jesus Christ, that woman packs a wallop.
Regardless, it's an ear-ringing sensation that spreads from behind my eyes to my temples and then all the way to the base of my skull. On instinct, I roll my neck to stretch out the knotted-up tendons, but the instant I move, my shoulders scream in protest, and I bite my tongue to keep quiet.
Son of a bitch.
Already knowing what I'll find, I glance up at the ceiling to the massive, exposed wooden beam spanning the length of the room. A heavy-gauge steel cable runs from a bolted-on pulley to a pair of shackles looping my wrists and suspending my arms above my head.
At least they're padded.
As is the support at my back, as well as the wide band circling my ribs, designed to take some of the weight off my wrists and arms and hold me vertical.
It's not exactly what I'd call a comfortable position, but in all fairness, it's probably a lot more hospitality than Koshmarin received.
I give my restraints a tentative, gentle tug, just enough to test their sturdiness without dislocating my shoulders or elbows. Like everything Aronov touches, it's all top-notch, pro-grade equipment with digitized locks and controls, rigged by someone who knows what they're doing and, more importantly, what someone like me can do. It's overkill, of course, and any other day, I might take that as a compliment.
Not today.
Because between those bindings and the shit condition of my body, I know I'm not going anywhere anytime soon.
If ever.
But I've never been one to mope or feel sorry for myself. So, instead of dwelling on that bit of misfortune – not to mention the needle-like stabs chasing away the numbness of sleep in my biceps – I opt for a little reconnaissance while I have the chance.
As I slowly scan the room, years of experience and training take over. Twenty feet away, I clock the lone entry point in the left-hand corner. Thick, heavy, and made from some variety of ornately stamped steel, the door's cracked maybe an inch, and a musty, earthy scent filters in, riding the currents from the air handling system overhead. It's faint, though, and it doesn't have the same dampness as the air three floors down where Aronov kept Cullen.
Okay, two floors down, it is.
Against the wall, stainless steel cabinets filled with linens and sterilized medical supplies stand between the racks of high-end hospital machines. All but the one stationed beside me are now dark, no longer in use. The one remaining glows like a beacon, and rows of sinusoidal lines scroll across its flat-screen monitor, fed from leads that disappear inside my shirt.
I skip over my vitals, and my eyes flit right, to the center of the room and the bed topped with a mound of rumpled blankets. Balled-up, crimson-stained sheets fill a nearby bin, and in another, I spy a pile of wadded-up gauze and bandages. It's more than a little macabre, but the fact that it's all still here tells me something important.
It tells me I lost a metric fuckton of blood and that the wound from Koshmarin's round wasn't so minor.
It also tells me I haven't been strung up like this for very long, not in Aronov's house, where perfection is the norm.
Filing that tidbit away for later, I twist in my restraints to survey the rest of the room.
Before I can stop myself, a sharp, wheezy gasp punches out of my chest as white-hot fire suddenly licks up my torso. Not kidding, it feels like my body's ripping in half. Bile climbs my esophagus, and red and green splotches float across my vision. For just a second, the throbbing pain in my head becomes meaningless.
Honestly, it's a fucking miracle I don't lose consciousness.
Or maybe it's just punishment instead.
Panting, I curse my stupidity and tip my head against the cushioned support. My eyes screw shut, and for a moment, I simply focus on breathing, counting my heartbeats until my body no longer feels like it's burning.
It takes a while, and about the time I come back to earth and lift my head, as if to add insult to injury, leather creaks somewhere to my right.
"Would you like some assistance?" Aronov asks, soft as silk.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
My head bangs against the cushion, and I sigh.
Well, I guess we're doing this now.
"I'm good, thanks," I say, gritting my teeth as I slowly, slowly rotate in my restraints to angle toward him. That same dizzying pain blossoms, and beads of sweat pop along my hairline, but there's no fucking way I'm giving this son of a bitch the satisfaction of hearing me scream.
When I finally manage to turn, I find the man in question a dozen feet away, calmly sitting and waiting in a lone leather chair, directly facing me.
It's a front-row seat, and apparently, I'm the fucking show.
With his chin resting in his palm and one leg draped over the opposite knee, as always, Aronov's the picture of graceful wealth and sophistication. Even down here in the dark, his whole being exudes power and cool self-assurance. At the same time, as we silently stare across the space and study each other, I spot signs of a different man.
Absent the usual cashmere sweater, deep wrinkles mar Aronov's once pristine, starched, white button-up. His short-cropped hair is mussed. His beard's lost its neat, freshly trimmed tidiness, too. Stress and fatigue line his face, and the plum-gray bruises darkening the hollows of his eyes make him look older.
I wonder just how long he's been here. Or if he ever left at all.
"Dobroye utro, lyubimaya," Aronov says, breaking the silence. He cocks an arrogant brow, daring me to respond in kind.
"Dobroye utro… dorogoy." This time, I don't butcher the pronunciation, and one corner of my mouth pulls up into a wry smile. "Ili uzhe vecher?"
He's not surprised.
"No, it is morning still." Keeping up the polite charade, Aronov waves an elegant, dismissive hand, but I don't miss the way his jaw works back and forth, locking down the rising fury. "You have been… out for two days. Needless to say, I was very concerned."
"I see that."
We stare at each other for a long, long moment. Bright and angry, his eyes roam my face, but they betray him, too, darting up to my wrists and then down to my shirt, which I belatedly realize is yet another one of his.
"How do you want to do this?" I finally ask.
Glancing away, Aronov snorts and then motions to the rustic, antique wood table beside him, where my sidearm, rifle, and black, heavy-denier gear bag sit as if on display. "Perhaps, we should start with this. Would you care to explain why you have such things in my house?"
I almost laugh because he's not fooling anyone.
"Pretty self-explanatory," I say, swiping my forehead on my bicep. "Don't you think?"
"Humor me, my love." He flashes me a row of pearly teeth, but it's not a pleasant smile, and his fingers curl around his armrests, biting into the leather. "Who do you work for?"
The air starts to spark and crackle again, and warning bells light off in my head.
But at this point, it doesn't matter.
Frankly, it's a relief, and as irrational as it is, the perpetual fist in my gut finally relaxes.
Because I'm goddamned tired of dissembling, and I can play this game, too.
I give him his own bland smile right back. "I have no idea what you're talking abo–"
"Do you think I am so stupid?" Aronov roars, cutting me off as one hand smacks against the table and echoes off the stone. "That I did not suspect?"
My brows climb.
Aronov shoves out of his chair and stalks toward me, stopping no more than a foot away. "When you simply appeared out of thin air… when you landed in my fucking lap?" As he stares down at me, his features pinch into a sneer, and then he bellows out a loud, furious, "Of course I did!"
Before I can reply, Aronov grabs me by the chin, forcing me to look up at him. When he speaks again, his voice drops to a low, gravelly growl, and each syllable punches out, hitting like physical blows. "But I did not care!"
I startle at that, just managing to suppress the wince when my stitches pull from the sudden movement. "What?"
Aronov lets out a soft chuckle. "Initially, I just assumed you had been sent by one of my competitors. Maybe Viktor, maybe Volodya." His smile turns sharp and ruthless. "After all, it is not so uncommon. There have been others over the years – volki v ovech'yey shkure." He pauses, once again daring me. "Of course, they were all dealt with accordingly."
It's not hard to imagine what accordingly means. I've seen his handiwork, and it's not pretty.
"Why di–"
"But you," he says, this time quieter, wistful even. "You were different, and I wanted you anyway, more than anyone or anything I have in years." As his grip softens, Aronov's thumb swipes across my bottom lip in a surprisingly tender caress, and then he shrugs. "So, I was willing to overlook certain things for you, much as I did with Edward when he first appeared, as I continue to do with Sasha... until I managed to convince you."
It takes a real concerted effort not to react to Masen's name, especially when I don't know where he is or if he's still breathing. That's not something I need to be thinking about right now, just like I don't need to think about what's likely happened to Rose while I've been out.
No, I'll open those wounds later… if I get the chance.
"Convince me of what?" I ask instead, swallowing back the knot threatening to form at the base of my throat.
"To be mine." Releasing me, Aronov chuckles once more, and it's a bitter sound, laced with that same unnamable emotion I heard in my sleep. His shoulders roll in another loose shrug. "I thought that I had."
I don't respond to that, but he doesn't expect me to.
Letting out a tired sigh, Aronov steps away and rakes a hand through his hair. "Should I assume it was Esme Platt who sent you to me?"
This time I nod as much as my restraints will allow. "That's probably a safe assumption."
Aronov snorts again. "It was you who sabotaged my shipments and my mines?"
I nod again.
"Neveroyatno." Aronov looks at me with what I can only call some blend of annoyance and reluctant admiration, and then, unexpectedly calm, he asks, "And you are the one responsible for the extraction of Esme Platt's husband?"
"Rescue, you mean." I gift him a small, apologetic smile. "I'd say I'm sorry about Kaius, but I'm not."
Shaking his head, Aronov waves me off with an indignant scoff. "He was disloyal and overly ambitious. I would have killed him eventually, for one reason or another."
We're quiet again, and as Aronov paces back and forth in front of me, his lips mash into a hard, unforgiving line. When he finally stops, he reaches into his pocket to fish out a familiar amber bottle. "Now, you will tell me what these are."
My fists ball in my restraints, but my smile doesn't falter. "Sleeping pills…" For a moment, I forget myself and give him a half-shrug. A soft whimper spills out before I can stop it. "You know that internal alarm clock of mine can be a real bitch sometimes."
"Sleeping pills," he says, slowly repeating my answer as if to himself. His eyes narrow. "And what else?"
Fuck.
"That's all the–"
"And what else?" he yells, grabbing me by the chin once more. Aronov's eyes bore into mine, instantly back to black and seething, and his fingers dig into my cheeks hard enough to bruise.
I don't look away. "I don't know."
"Lie!" His hand shakes with his anger, and a vein pulses in his forehead. "You will tell me what I want to know, or God help me, I will beat it from you myself."
"Like Sulpicia?"
Aronov's nostrils flare, and he sucks in a sharp breath.
Before I can blink, fire explodes across my cheek and jaw. My head whips sideways, swinging me in my restraints. On cue, my abdomen screams with a violent agony only rivaled by the joints grinding in my shoulders and wrists. The room momentarily goes black, and all I can sense is the air sawing in and out of my lungs as I fight to stay conscious.
Okay, that was a fucking mistake.
But when I finally come to, I just give him another benign smile and spit a wad of blood and saliva on the stone floor between us. "Nice backhand."
Aronov's expression freezes in a split second of mute horror. I don't know if he's surprised by himself or me, but his voice loses some of the fury when he speaks again.
"Tell me," he says, almost cajoling as he steps into me. Reaching across, he plucks a tissue off the nearby table and gently dabs my bottom lip. "Please, do not make me hurt you. It is the last thing I wish to do."
A very bitchy and very sarcastic retort sits on the tip of my tongue, but you can't say I don't learn from my mistakes.
I run my tongue over my teeth, just to make sure they're still there, and spit out another mouth full of copper. "As far as I know, it's some type of hallucinogen mixed with a sedative."
Aronov's fist clenches around the tissue stained with my blood. "For whom was this drug intended?"
"Who do you think?"
"I see." That vein in his forehead throbs, and as red splotches color his cheeks, I mentally prepare myself for the strike that's coming. "And for what purpose did you drug me?"
Grimacing, I finally look away, and when I reply, it's barely above a whisper. "I think you know the answer to that."
A heavy, blanketing silence fills the room, so still and quiet that the faint, steady tick of the Patek Philippe circling his wrist sounds loud and intrusive.
Two fingers touch my cheek, carefully angling my face back toward his.
Sweat slicks Aronov's forehead. A muscle in his cheek jumps, and then his features twist and crumple as he finally pieces it all together.
"Every time?" he murmurs, and when we make eye contact, his shine, wet and bright. "None of it was real?"
When I don't answer, Aronov wheels away from me like he's just been stung. Scrubbing his face, rasping over the short, coarse hair of his beard, he paces and paces. With each pop of fine Italian leather against stone, his shoulders flex and roll, and his fists ball into tight, quivering hammers. Air punches out of his lungs in shallow pants, and every time he glances back at me, I see that wetness in his eyes staring back, accusing, threatening to spill over.
As I watch him, I realize that I have wounded this man deeply.
Far more than I ever thought possible.
And wounded creatures are the most dangerous kind.
Despite that, despite the fact that I'd do it all again and that I'll take him out the first chance I get, a tiny, hidden part of me pangs with remorse and pity.
Aronov abruptly halts. When he pivots to face me, his expression goes flat. Without looking away, he pulls his phone from his pocket and taps a single key.
Whoever's on the other end answers with lightning speed.
"Privedi yeye syuda," is all he says, and then he chucks his phone on the table by my weapons.
A spark of cautious hope blooms in my chest because there's only one she Aronov could mean, but I'm not about to get ahead of myself here.
"Now," Aronov says, almost purring as he gives me a slick, oily smile. As he walks toward me, he cranks his neck to the side, stretching and popping the vertebrae, and my internal radar fires off like a cannon. It takes everything I have not to flinch when he trails his fingertips oh-so-gently down the side of my face to my throat to the valley between my breasts. His palm flattens against my sternum as he leans down to run his nose along my jaw, breathing me in as he goes. "What do I do with you?"
His palm slides back up to my throat to frame my windpipe.
"Should I forgive you?" Aronov kisses my temple once, then twice, and then his lips tease the shell of my ear as he speaks. "Or should I make you suffer for the hurt you have done to me?"
As his thumb strokes my throat, I swallow on reflex. "Do I get a choice?"
"No, but I am willing to negotiate." His eyes gleam, burning into mine with almost pathological resolve and purpose. "I am a businessman, after all."
I do not like where this is going.
"In spite of your many transgressions, for you, I can be a forgiving man," Aronov whispers, and it's like a blade scraping across my senses, erupting my skin in gooseflesh. "But I want something of equal value from you in return."
Nope, I don't like this at all.
Licking my lips, I ask, "Okay, what exactly do you want?"
"It is very simple," he says, repeating the same words he spoke to me so many weeks ago. Aronov draws away, only to pluck a strand of hair out of my face and tuck it behind my ear. "And it is not so different from our prior arrangement."
"Meaning?"
The back of his hand ghosts along my jaw. "In exchange for your life, you will stay here."
"As in here," I say, deflecting. "In your creepy basement?"
Aronov's cheeks crease.
"As with our original agreement, you will be my companion," he says, stepping closer until his body heat radiates into mine. "But you will do everything I ask of you, and there will be no more missteps. No more lapses in judgment or secrets." His eyes fall to my mouth, following his fingertips as they trace my lips. "You will come to my bed every night, willingly, eager to please me." Tipping my face up, he kisses me, swiping his tongue across my swollen bottom lip to lap the blood from his earlier blow. "And when I decide, you will become my loyal, devoted wife, and you will love me."
Before I can react to that little bit of insanity, Aronov's hand slides down to my stomach and slips inside my shirt, careful to skirt my wounds, and his words turn dark and guttural. "And after your belly grows fat with my sons, then – perhaps, then – I will forgive you."
"Fuck you."
My jaw rings from the force of his fist.
And this time, I do black out, only coming back once the agony coursing through my body settles back into a steady throb timed to the beat of my heart. I grasp for the cable above my head, trying to take more weight off my midsection and joints, but it's a futile endeavor. So, I just slump in my bindings, breathing through the pain, and think about how I'm going to get out of this clusterfuck.
At least I get the pleasure of watching Aronov wring his hand afterward.
But then he laughs like the fucking delusional psycho he is.
"Beautiful, willful woman," he says as his shoulders shake. "I look forward to having you in earnest."
Behind him, the door swings wide, creaking on its hinges. Armed to the teeth, Aronov's bodyguards mutely file in, followed by Markovsky's pet marksman, Oleg. Instead of Feliks' and Dmitri's tailored suits and ties, the latter's still sporting his matte black fatigues and matching armor, but as Dmitri subtly nods for him to flank Aronov's right, I realize the kid's just been promoted.
When Rosalie steps through the door frame a second later, it takes everything in me not to collapse in relief. Streaks of mascara trail down her cheeks, her hair's lank and unkempt, and there's more than a couple of fresh tears in the ancient olive drab t-shirt she's wearing over rolled-down sweats. Yet when she looks at me, her bright blue eyes glint with the ice-cold calculation and determination I know so well.
Masen strolls in, right on her heels.
Cool, aloof, and maddeningly collected, Masen scans the room like the trained predator he is. I watch him mentally tag Dmitri, Feliks, and Oleg, and then his languid gaze slides past me like I'm not even here before finally landing on Aronov. By all outward measures, nothing about this fazes him, but I'm not fooled. That man's energy kisses me like a hot summer breeze, buffeting me with a potent blend of fury and relief.
Fuck, I hope they have a plan.
As Dmitri swings the door shut, Markovsky slips in last. Unlike the others, he sticks to the perimeter and targets the far left-hand wall, where he stands and observes the scene in front of him, stone-faced, cross-armed, and as silent as a wraith.
"Can someone please tell me what's going on?" Rosalie says, frantic, playing it up like the civilian she's still pretending to be. When her head swivels toward me, she lets out a terrified wail, and her voice rises in both pitch and volume. "Why the fuck are we down here? Why is Bella chained up?" She grabs Masen's arm and shakes him. "What the fuck is going on!?"
"Shut her up," Aronov says, motioning to Feliks.
Feliks moves far faster than I gave him credit for. In a quick, lithe move, Aronov's massive guard wraps a meaty arm around Rosalie's chest and clamps his hand over her mouth. When she struggles against him, screeching into his palm, he grins like the Cheshire cat and squeezes her even tighter.
"What are you doing?" I say to Aronov. "She has no part in this. Leave her out of it."
Aronov's shoulder lifts in a graceful, indifferent shrug. "Then she is worthless, and you will not care what happens to her." He touches my face again, drawing my features like I'm the finest porcelain. "I think you do care. Very much, in fact. But maybe you need some additional… incentive to help you see just how generous my offer is."
"Bullshit." I glare at him. "This is between you and me. That's it."
"Feliks," he says, purring, and then Aronov gives me a bone-chilling smile. "Take Ms. Hale into the next room. Fuck her. Kill her. I do not care. Just make her scream."
.
.
.
Notes:
Just for fun, Viktor and Volodya (short name for Vladimir) are first names lifted from actual Russian oligarchs who've made their billions in the steel and metals industry.
Russian (transliterated):
Mitya, chto ty nashel: Mitya, what did you find?
Otvechay: Answer me!
Budet luchshe, yesli vy sami posmotrite: It would be better if you saw for yourself
Chto eto: What is this?
Oruzhiye bylo v yeye starykh komnatakh.Tabletki byli v yeye sumochke: The weapons were in her old rooms. The pills were in her handbag
Vy khotite, chtoby ya yeyo ubil: Do you want me to kill her?
Ubiraysya: Get out!
Dobroye utro, lyubimaya: Good morning, my love/beloved
Dobroye utro, dorogoy … Ili uzhe vecher: Good morning, my dear/darling… or is it already evening?
Volki v ovech'yey shkure: wolves in sheep's clothing
Neveroyatno: Unbelievable
Privedi yeye syuda: Bring her here
Glossary: