Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 69662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
The metal door opened, the hinges creaking, the sound of heavy boots stepping in causing me to look to the side.
Abram, the worst of my handlers, stepped in, a sadistic grin on his face as he held a cattle prod.
“Rise and shine, pretty boy. Time to play the game of how many times can you stay upright when I use the hot stick on you.”
I pushed myself up and stood, but Abram was on me right away, jabbing the end of the cattle prod into my side until I roared out. On instinct, I swiped out and clocked the fucker in the calf.
He grunted and jabbed the prod into the side of my neck. It felt like I seized.
And he kept doing that over and over again until I couldn’t stand up any longer.
Until I lost his sick fucking game.
Chapter
Twenty
Anastasia
“Abram was the first one I killed.”
I replayed the last thing Kostya said to me after he told me one of the many stories from after he was taken, and what had played out for him over the last ten years.
I swiped at my cheek, brushing away an errant tear as I thought about the horrors and abuse he endured.
“He was the first but he wasn’t the last. I hunted every one of those fuckers who hurt me and I made them suffer. And I’ve been killing for the last decade and reveling in it.”
Squeezing my eyes shut brought a sting of pain and a fresh wave of tears.
After he told me the last story from when he was taken, one where they used a whip against his bare back until he hadn’t even been able to stay conscious, until his skin had been peeled from him like taking it easily off a potato, I’d begged him to not tell me anymore. And that, in itself, felt so selfish. Because a part of me felt like if Kostya had to suffer through it then so should I.
After that, he’d stepped outside and I’d been holed up in the bedroom ever since.
And now I knew why he had so many tattoos. He covered all the marks and scars from his trauma.
I was being a coward and hiding in here, unsure how to deal with all of this, unsure how to handle my own emotions. God, Kostya had seemed so detached as he told me, his voice never changing, his expression so stoic and cold I still felt shivers because of it.
The biggest part of me wanted to comfort him, but how did you do that to a man like Kostya, who I was pretty sure didn’t have any more compassion in him?
It had been stripped, whipped, cut, and burned out of him for so many years that I wasn’t sure it could ever come back.
When I came out of the room hours before, I wanted to tell him it was time for me to go back to my apartment, that we’d work things out, that we could and would start over.
Maybe I was a fool for trying to rationalize this whole situation, trying to connect with my “captor.” But as I’d looked down at him cleaning those weapons, his expression so void, I wanted to know more about his journey.
And he told me. He told me so much that I knew I would have nightmares because of it.
I looked out the window and realized the entire day had rushed by, but it all seemed like a blur. I wasn’t hungry and had barely eaten anything all day. How could I have an appetite when I’d heard about how someone I had cared about and loved had suffered and hurt for so long?
I heard the front door open and close, turned my attention toward the hallway, waiting for him to come in, but as the seconds turned into minutes, I knew he wouldn’t.
I could hear the heavy sound of his boots on the wooden floor as he walked back and forth. Then I heard a cabinet door opening and closing. He set something heavy on the counter, and my curiosity got the best of me.
But still I didn’t move. I wanted to. I wanted to go to him, to wrap my arms around his big body, to run my fingers over his tattooed skin, which I now knew underneath all that ink he was were covered with scars.
I wanted to kiss every single one of them. But I also knew my touches probably wouldn’t be welcome.
I sat there for long minutes thinking everything over. It was still hard to imagine my father had been the one to send Kostya to that hell, although I was a stupid girl for thinking otherwise.
But he’d seemed so genuinely sad, so concerned with my sadness. And because I’d grown up with him sheltering and coddling me, it was easy to see my father as something and someone he wasn’t.