Page 10 of The Devils' Darling

I widen my eyes and shake my head. “No, please.”

“This is going to happen, and if you fight and struggle, you’ll only make things worse for yourself. I’d hate to nick an artery by accident.”

I freeze, the image of me bleeding out on this bathroom floor filling my head. I don’t want to die. I’ve fought for so long; I refuse to give up now. Unless someone has dealt with a chronic illness for most of their lives, they’ve got no idea how difficult it’s been just to keep going some days. After my diagnosis, it had been so hard waking up in the mornings, knowing this was my life now. I’d grieved for the carefree girl I used to be before I had to constantly think about medications, and nutrition, and my stress levels, and grieved for the future I’d believed had been over.

I won’t win against this man, not on a physical level.

Holding out my arm, I squeeze my eyes shut and turn my face away. “Just be quick.”

I hear his smile in his tone. “Good girl.”

The cold, sharp blade presses against my flesh, right at the base of the matchstick sized implant beneath my skin.

“Keep still,” he tells me.

I can’t help that I’m shaking. I swallow hard, and tears trickle down my cheeks. I brace myself for the pain.

When it comes, it’s like fire or ice burning up my skin. I can’t help it, I automatically try to pull away, but he clamps my arm tight. Hot blood flows down the inside of my bicep, pooling in the crook of my elbow. He produces a pair of tweezers, and I scream as he uses them to dig into my flesh, trying to get purchase on the tiny implant. He finally manages it and pulls, but there is resistance. A rush of heat floods over me, and I’m not sure if I’m going to be sick or pass out, or maybe both. The room spins around me. Fuck no, I can’t have a seizure now. I just can’t.

I remember my yoga breathing, and the sense of the room spinning fades.

“Got it,” Grigoriy says, holding the implant up between the twin points of the tweezers like he’s caught some rare insect.

He tosses both items into the sink and then regards the blood running down my arm. “Better get you cleaned up.”

I hold my arm out mutely as he finds wipes and a bandage. The way he patches me up is almost with tenderness and compassion, which goes completely against the way he’s treated me so far. When he’s done, he steps back to admire his handiwork.

“There. You are better.”

I just nod, the pressure of the bandage and pain in my arm a constant reminder of how fucking insane this man is.

I’m also worried about what the change in hormones is going to do to my body. There might be a chance it’ll bring on more seizures, especially as I don’t have my meds. But a change in hormones will be the least of my worries if this man gets what he wants.

I know from warnings from my doctor that removal of the implant means I can get pregnant pretty much right away. Pregnancy isn’t something I can take lightly, especially as my seizures aren’t currently under control. The medications I take means a baby has a higher chance of having birth defects, and while some women might choose to stop taking them, if they haven’t had a seizure for a year or two, I’m not in that position.

It's on the tip of my tongue to tell him the truth, but what will he do if he knows I’ll not be the perfect Bratva wife and mother he wants for his son? He’ll have no use for me then, and I highly doubt he’ll just let me go. He’ll probably decide to let his men have their fun with me—to use me and abuse me—and then one of them will kill me.

I can’t let him know the truth.

“Now, let’s get you back to your cage,” he says.

My bladder aches. “Can I use the toilet first?”

He twists his lips, and for a moment, I think he’s going to refuse me, but then he nods. “Very well.”

He turns his back on me, and I realize he’s not going to leave. I’m too desperate to complain, and I pull my sweatpants and panties down, folding over on myself to try to hide my body from him, and relieve myself in a hot gush of urine.

He keeps his back to me, and I wipe, and flush, and rearrange my clothing as I stand. At the sound of the flush, he turns to face me.

“Done?” he asks.

“I’m just washing my hands,” I mutter, keeping my head down.

They’re sticky with blood, and do need washing, but mostly I’m thinking about that razor blade. He’s just left it on the side of the sink, the sharp edge dark with my blood. It’s not much of a weapon, but it’s something. If I could just get my hands on it, I could use it to slash his goddamned throat.

I turn on the faucet and run my hands beneath the warm water. Diluted blood swirls against the white porcelain, and I angle my body to block his view.

Carefully, trying not to make any jerky movements that will alert him to my actions, I reach out to the blade, my fingertips touching the cool metal.

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