Page 112 of Little Blue

He tsks. “I ask the questions.”

I clamp my mouth shut tight. He watches, looking mildly pleased. He asks Boris, “Has he responded?”

“No.”

“Pity.” Ivan sighs, then his eyes roam again over me. “She is beautiful, I’ll give him that.”

Boris doesn’t reply, but I think I see his jaw clench.

I want to cower under Ivan’s scrutiny, but I can’t exactly move tied up as I am. Ivan studies me for long moments where nothing but the sound of my raspy, ragged breaths, sound. Then he says, “Ilya loves you, does he not?”

“I—” Oh, God, is this about Ilya?

My heart…

Ivan stands, moving to the black box. He unclasps the clip, carefully, slowly opening the lid. Flicking florescent light catches the gleaming surface of what I now know for certain is a collection of torture devices. Blades, drills, pliers and tools I can’t name. Some, I’ve never even seen before.

A sob catches in my throat. Boris shifts, the mask he wears cracking just a bit. Ivan, however, is entirely unaffected.

His thickly accented English is smooth, but the cruel edge can’t be mistaken. “It would be a very, very bad idea to lie to me, Irelynn Taylor. I do not make a habit of asking questions I don’t already know the answer to.”

That caught sob slips. To stop my lip from trembling, I bite it.

“I will ask again,” Ivan walks away from the box, leaving the instruments untouched. For now. “Does Ilya love you.”

“H-he says h-he d-does.”

“Do you think he will come for you?”

I begin to cry. No, not just cry—full body sobs I can’t reign in no matter how I try. I’m so ashamed I’m not stronger than this. The women in my books—the captives in movies—this isn’t how they act.

But here I am, a real-life girl, a broken disaster. Finally, through my sobs, I nod. “Do y-you want him t-to come for m-me?”

“Oh, yes. I want very much for him to come for you.” Ivan takes the chair again. “That’s why I had my son bring you to me.”

My eyes fly to Boris. Horror lashes a talon across my heart as the echo of his voice saying, “My mother is dead. She was murdered by my father.”

This man—Ivan—is Boris’ father. And he killed his mother.

How? How does he have his loyalty?

How did Ilya not know?

Ivan laughs as he watches the thoughts drift through my mind as clear as if they were words etched into my face. “Boris is my bastard. I haven’t claimed him publicly, but he is loyal to me regardless.”

Swallowing hard, I ask, “Why?”

“Why?” Ivan cocks his head, a big, scarred hand flipping to the side. “Why do I want Ilya Volkov?”

I nod. Even that small movement jars my tender, throbbing head.

Ivan grins. “He has my daughter. You are the trade I will offer to get her back,” he explains. “And then I will kill him. I will peel the skin from his body and make you watch. I will take his eyelids and make him watch as I make you a whore.” I flinch, horrified dread seeping like unchecked cancer through my veins.

Ivan chuckles, his dark eyes landing on Boris. “He may have had her, but she is still innocent. I can sense it.” His lip curls. “She’ll make good money for me on her back. Or I could sell her to the gangs in Brazil. Africa, even.” He considers. “Depending on how rough the men are with her, she could even go to auction.”

Boris says nothing. As my eyes implore his, he doesn’t even look at me.

This man is talking about selling me—my body—for sex. He’s talking about raping me, horrifically, in front of the man I love. Who loves me.

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