⧗ CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR ⧗


The Madame was right.

It did get easier.

The training missions continued, and with them what was asked of Dmitri.

The safety nets, or so they were called, drew back a little more each time. Dmitri knew he wasn't down the river without a paddle, but he knew as soon as the security manager locked the closet door behind them, he was on his own. All he had to do was keep them distracted long enough so Annika could pull the files from his private laptop.

Nothing to be done when the CFO bent Dmitri over the mahogany executive desk and left him bruised and sore for days afterwards.

Neither with the Interpol agent with a weakness for cocaine. How she insisted she needed it to keep up with her intense career, and found release in her favorite activity: pretty redheads in an anonymous hotel. Not once did she ever fear a security breach.

No comfort was ever offered from his handlers; just a reminder to use protection, lube, whatever to make it more comfortable. But only a suggestion, not a rule.

The only ones he could commiserate with were his sisters. Oksana, Sabina, Rada, and Annika were no better off than he was, the only thing that changed was whose "turn" it was on any given mission. It all depended on the tastes of the target. Learning fetishes and kinks in classes still paled in comparison to the actual participation of such. Dmitri found foot fetishes (unfortunately common when their frequent covers came in the form of ballet companies) to be revolting, but still preferable to getting choked or slapped around.

The less Dmitri thought about it, the better.

Nothing changed the game until he finally had the Widow's Bite gauntlets. Then? Then he started to enjoy himself a little bit.

He didn't think he would at first. He didn't know what would happen after he heard small ka-chink of one bracer depositing a tiny capsule into the glass of scotch. Of course the CFO had his own minibar, and of course Dmitri wasn't going to object when told to serve drinks, while the executive was busy zipping up his pants and lounging in his leather swivel chair.

Not until Dmitri had flopped onto the nearby couch, taking a tiny sip at the same time, watching carefully, with growing fascination, as the man's expression metamorphosed from smug indulgence to confused satisfaction to clear distress. Watched, with barely contained glee, as the man struggled to get up, the poison having already taken effect. Stumbling towards Dmitri, choking as he begged for help, collapsing not halfway from his desk. Reaching out, gasping for air as his muscles seized and refused to move, face turning blue and eyes bulging, utter terror on his face when he realized that Dmitri wasn't going to help him. Just lounged there, drinking that scotch slowly, appreciating the taste and the time it took for that man to die.

Dmitri didn't know exactly how long it would take, only that the man had stopped moving by the time he finished the glass and set it down on the coffee table — his fingers leaving no prints, having been burned off some time ago. Dmitri couldn't recall exactly when.

It was to the CFO's detriment that he turned off his own security cameras in order to have this illicit rendezvous. It gave Dmitri the freedom to clean up the office of any trace evidence that he'd been here. Stepping over that man's body, and suddenly the soreness he felt was a little more bearable. The poison would become untraceable by the time the secretary discovered the body in the morning.

That felt good, but not nearly as good as killing the security manager. Both hands around that fucker's throat, not unlike how he made Dmitri choke around his cock.

Tit for tat.

Dmitri hid the bruises his hands left behind with the man's tie too tight around his throat, and manually pulled the clothing rod down to make it appear as a man too heavy to hang himself.

The Interpol agent — well, she was almost pathetic. Insisted he do a line of cocaine with her, surely he must have some, it's only polite of her to offer and for him to accept. Pouted when he refused and brought out the handcuffs after. Didn't really have the chance to react when she so naively left her gun lying just out of reach. She had just finished stubbing her cigarette out on his chest when Dmitri oh-so-playfully pulled it from its holster. The woman laughed and told him to be careful, it's not a toy, bambino.

That condescending smile still on her face when he put a bullet through her temple.

It was her fault for leaving a bullet in the chamber, otherwise it would've been harder to pull off with one hand still handcuffed to the bedpost. Easy enough to stage it as a drug-fueled suicide after the fact. She used enough hard drugs to single-handedly keep a mafia or two in business.

Suicide was always the best way to do it. Less questions that way, easier to wrap up. To facilitate a random yet tragic heart attack was easier with older targets, such as the CFO. Dmitri had yet to decide his preferred murder method, though he thought he liked a slow death. Long enough to watch the light fade from their eyes, to realize that what they thought to be the silly little fuck toy they brought into their secret lives wasn't so harmless after all.

Nothing sustained. No relationships. Just a brief rendezvous, no more than a night's worth of torment.

It was easy, Dmitri realized. Almost fun, to kill. Better, when he had a reason to want them dead.

It wasn't all he did, of course. There was plenty else Dmitri had to do besides; lying his way into a high security bank vault in order to retrieve kompromat on an environmental activist and their supposedly "non-profit" organization. Sneaking into a gala full of Sweden's top politicians. Breaking into an oil baron's Italian mansion and leaving behind nothing but a knife, stabbed into the wall above his child's crib. Just a warning, nothing more. The people that died would never be connected to their actual goals. It was merely their direct human targets… eclipsed everything else.

But the killing only lessened the disgust he felt afterwards, didn't eliminate it completely. Those long, unbearably hot showers still remained. Not to wash the blood off his hands, oh no, of course not.

Just to wash their hands off of his skin.

Even lying alone in bed, Dmitri could still feel them touching him. In every way he hated. Like spiders crawling across his skin, across his face and chest, in his mouth, in his pants. Inescapable.

He couldn't shake it. It was easier during the day, hardly noticeable. Dmitri had work to do and it was easy to lose himself in it.

But at night, alone, with nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company?

Dmitri couldn't sleep. And when he did, their faces emerged from the darkness. Mia's face had been replaced by greater nightmares. Worse ones. At least Mia had never touched him. Only shot him. It wasn't personal. Not really. She never used him, took him, threw him away.

The more his skin crawled with invisible hands, the more he missed her face. Dmitri missed that fear. Almost comfortable in how well he knew it. More tolerable than the overwhelming sickness he felt when his body no longer belonged to himself.

Worst still, the Madame had increased her attentions and affections upon him. Oh, how she loved to ruffle his hair when he'd pleased her. She'd always done it, and it was only now Dmitri realized how he both loved and hated it. Hated to be touched. Loved to be loved. The other girls would joke how the Madame played favorites, and outwardly Dmitri would deny it, of course the Madame wouldn't do that.

But she did. She absolutely did. And Dmitri was both thrilled and terrified at once. Glad that, even as a potential Wolf Spider, his fate wasn't doomed; and yet never once forgetting the fear of disappointing her even once.

Dmitri couldn't afford to. Not if he wanted to survive.

To graduate from the Red Room, of course. But also to keep away from the threat of Dreykov, who still lurked in the dark shadows. The boogeyman of the Red Room.

Dmitri preferred Baba Yaga with a Gun, as Sabina once referred to the Soldatka. They didn't know the truth and Dmitri never felt compelled to tell them. Would they even believe him, never mind understand? It wasn't worth explaining to them that the mindless machine was also a girl living a semi-normal life in America. They'd probably accuse him of spreading Western propaganda.

The Madame never discussed her again, Dmitri thought. If there was anyone he should mention it to, it would be her. But how would he explain how he knew? He hadn't been here when the Winter Soldier taught the last time. Perhaps someday, but Dmitri was too insecure in his position within the Red Room to go treading where he was not bid to.

All that mattered was that Dmitri survived another day. That he lived long enough to see someone else die.