Page 111 of Little Blue

He says nothing as he passes me the phone. As soon as I see the screen, I know why. There’s very little to say other than, “This is war.”

Forty-Five

Irelynn

I wake with a kink in my neck that rivals the painful throb in my cheek. As soon as reality begins to settle in, I realize why. I’m strapped to a metal chair, and in my forced slumber, my head had rolled forward until my chin had connected with my chest. I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting like this, but if I had to shoot my shot in the dark, I’d say it’s been at least a few hours judging by the pain in my body. All of my body.

What the hell is happening? Where am I?

Blinking against the bright fluorescent lights that flicker overhead like something out of a horror movie, I will my eyes to adjust.

It’s not like something out of a horror movie. This is a horror set—and it’s my life.

How did I get here?

My teeth begin to clap even though the pain in my jaw begs me to stop. The room is much larger than an average room, and it’s clearly used for torture.

The walls are concrete and stained a rusty brown. The floor is the same, more so just beneath the chair that I sit on. I realize with sinking dread that it’s not rust, but dry blood. My eyes land on a second chair, again, metal. It sits against the wall, empty. Against the same wall is a foldable table. On the top is a black case. It’s closed, but that doesn’t mean my imagination doesn’t run wild with all the things it could contain to maim a person. To kill…

Oh, God, help me.

Unhinged fear rattles loose inside my chest as I struggle against my restraints. My hands are knotted behind my back, my ankles tied to the chair legs. I haven’t been gagged, but I’m too afraid to scream. A cold sweat breaks out across my forehead and down the length of my spine. Something sharp cuts into my wrists as I tug. I don’t break free.

A helpless whimper breaks free as I do another scan of the windowless room. Then I stiffen, because the sound of a key sliding into the door has fear unlike any other swelling inside my chest. It expands against my lungs until they feel as though they’re being squeezed by razor wire.

I’m going to die.

Whoever has me is going to kill me.

Ilya…

The door swings open and a man I’ve never seen in my life strolls into the room. His confidence is massive, his face surprisingly handsome for an older man. But the dark eyes that land on me are impossibly cruel, entirely cold, and promise a dreadful death.

I tear my eyes from the first man as a second follows. “Boris!”

He gives me a glance but rips it away too quickly. The hope in my heart stutters, falling into the muddled confusion of how I arrived in this place.

A flash of memory lands hot in my consciousness. Boris driving, me in the back seat. A conversation. Then a gated yard, rough hands on my body, Boris saying that he’s sorry.

I wince at the memory of a man’s pleading screams—the pop of a gunshot.

Someone beat me into unconsciousness after I’d heard that pop.

Ice expands in my veins as my memory comes back to me in suffocating waves of icy cold reality. My reality.

I’m really going to die here. In this room. Like…this.

Who is going to care for Lucy? Ilya will surely keep him. Polina will love him for me.

Tears burn my eyes.

Two months ago, I’d been a girl in a one room apartment with a soggy ceiling. Outside of fiction, I hadn’t truly believed that this could happen.

The first man grips the free chair to swing it closer to mine. My heart cowers into my spine as he lowers his big body into the chair, appraising me with cruel eyes.

“My name is Ivan Popov. If you wish to live, you’ll do exactly as you’re told.”

If I wish to live… “W-why am I h-here?”

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