Page 38 of Emerald Malice

“Snuck out the back with two of his men,” Shura confirms with a sigh.

“The rest?”

“Dead.”

“So we don’t have any leads or leverage.” I gesture towards the door of Misha’s bedroom. “The boy giving you any trouble?”

Efrem shrugs. “Kid’s all bark and no bite. He just hisses and spits in the corner when one of us walks in with his food. But apart from that, nothing interesting.”

Shura takes a backward glance at the door. “Have you decided what you want to do with him?”

“Not yet.”

The truth is, I’ve decided to let Misha live. I have no problem killing as many of Nikolai’s men as possible. But Misha’s not a man; he’s a boy. He deserves better than an unmarked grave.

The only decision is: what the fuck do I do with him now?

“We could let him go?” Efrem suggests.

“What, so he can run right back to Nikolai with inside information?” Shura scoffs. “Don’t be an idiot.”

I ignore them both. “Releasing him is not an option. We can’t trust him yet.”

Shura’s gaze turns thoughtful. “We could train him.”

I’ve been toying with the same idea for the last few weeks. “It’s not a bad thought,” I acknowledge. “The boy has potential. He certainly has enough grit to get him through basic training.”

“Grit is one thing. Loyalty is another,” Efrem butts in.

“He’s going stir-crazy in that room. It’s not right for a young boy to be cooped up in a cell.” Shura’s arm twitches—the one with the long, twisting scar that seems to have no end. Shura spent most of his childhood locked in a cage by his abusive stepfather. He knows better than anyone how oppressive four walls can be.

“I’ll think on it. Now, where’s the girl?”

“Second room on the right,” Shura informs me, tipping his head in the direction of the arched corridor.

I go there. The door is locked from the outside, like Misha’s, and the curtains have been drawn. It takes a moment for me to locate her on the bed in the corner of the room. She’s lying underneath a blanket and there’s not even a hint of movement.

Is she sleeping…?

But when I approach, her eyes are open wide, staring at the ceiling above. She barely blinks.

“Natalia.”

When I speak, she doesn’t so much as flinch.

I move to the edge of her bed and run my hand along her cheek. Again—no reaction.

I pull the sheet off her. Her dress is a tangled mess. There’s blood staining one corner—I don’t even know whose it is—and a tear in the hem. Her face is clean, though. I’m guessing Yelena gave her the same sponge treatment she gave me.

I touch her hand and her fingers are cold.

Shock is one thing; catatonia speaks to a whole different level of trauma.

Intensely aware of the life inside of her, I grab her arms and pull her upright. She moves like a ragdoll, her weight sinking against my uninjured shoulder.

“It’s okay, lastochka,” I croon. “You’re going to be fine.”

I start undoing the buttons of her dress one by one, hoping that inspires some sort of reaction. Maybe she’ll bat my hand away or tell me to fuck off.

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