Page 207 of The Lazarov Bratva

Why else would I see Mara at the end? A horrific manifestation of my guilt.

I no longer have the strength to fight, but I will hold onto this life with my teeth if I have to. Death will take me kicking and screaming right up to the last second.

Suddenly, the sickeningly familiar scrape of the heavy door against the stone floor reaches my ears. I press my forehead into the cold stone and push down the despair. I’m sure, deep down, I know I deserve this. For every life I’ve taken. For everyone I’ve ever hurt.

It seems that another round of punishment is coming my way. I’ll take it the best I can.

Hurried footsteps overlap outside my cell, and then the familiar gut-wrenching screech of my iron cage sings in the air as it wrenches open. I don’t move. I’ll make them work for it.

Solid, warm hands grab at my arms and armpits, hauling me upward at such a speed my head spins. They drag me out of my cell, and my head stays down, rocking slightly between my shoulders while their voices drift over the top of me. I’m seated, and a hand firmly grips my jaw, pressing on the indentation of my cheeks.

The painful pressure on the hinge of my jaw forces my mouth open, and I can only grunt blearily. Instead of pliers or any of the filth I expect to be shoved past my lips, there’s nothing but cool, clear water.

The crisp, cold taste sends me into shock, and my throat refuses to work, causing the water to spill back out of my mouth. My mind runs slowly, trying to work out what the trick is here. Is the water drugged? Will consuming it make me suffer?

Maybe. But water is water.

“Drink,” comes a low voice, and with Alena in my thoughts, I do just that. I drink obediently now that my throat listens to me. The first few gulps burn my throat, but then the cool water becomes a soothing balm and my great thirst locks onto the water. Small sips turn into giant gulps, and I reach for the source until it’s suddenly ripped away from me.

Water drips from my lips down onto my bare chest as I await punishment for being so greedy. It doesn’t come. Instead, there’s a familiar voice.

“Be careful,” it barks. “Too much, too fast is dangerous!”

“Yes, sir.”

I know that voice.

Why do I know that voice?

Blearily, I open my eyes and immediately wince at the harsh glare of the light above. My eyes burn, and my eyelids almost fold in on themselves as I fight the pain. Something soft drapes across my shoulders, and then the bottle rim is back at my lips.

“Slowly,” a voice instructs.

I open my eyes and I drink slowly, as requested. The man in front of me isn’t someone I recognize, but he’s also not one of the torturers who have visited me these past months. He supports my chin and the bottle, allowing me four or five slower gulps before the bottle is removed.

“What did they do to you?” comes that familiar voice again, its tones dripping with a horrified shock. I glance around wildly, searching the sea of new faces for whom that voice belongs to.

Is this another hallucination?

Just as I consider that, two men step aside, and a large, blurry figure steps forward. He comes closer and closer until he’s right in front of me, his face flooded with concern and his thick, bushy brows so low that they almost cover his eyes.

“August?” I croak, struggling to make the connection.

August was dead. He got shot. There was so much blood, and Mara had taunted me often about how I was the only one dragged out of that warehouse alive.

This has to be another hallucination. It has to be.

“I’m right here, Son,” August says, his large hand landing on my shoulder. “You’re safe.”

Death comes for me, and darkness consumes me.

* * *

The soft tweeting of birds and distant sounds of laughter warm my soul.

Is this… heaven?

I want to sleep.

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