Page 30 of Keeping Ruby

He slides his hands into his pockets, swaying back on his heels just so. “I didn’t take you.”

I scowl, then I give my hand a wave in the direction of ‘The Watch House’. “Your lackeys, then.”

His eyes never leave my face. I wish they would.

“They didn’t take you, either.”

“Well, I didn’t magically transport myself here,” I scoff, my anger flaring. “Fairy godmothers don’t drop their girls into a Vipers’ den, and then sit back to see how she fares. They definitely don’t give the innocent to a big-headed Mafia goon, either. They give them to the prince, and I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, that you, dear husband, are no prince.”

His movement is so quick, I’m left momentarily speechless, gasping in shock. Simba gives a warning growl, but otherwise does not move.

It’s a real feat when I don’t swallow my tongue, because never in my life has anyone ever curled their hand around my throat—with pressure.

Never, before him.

Still, I must have swallowed the foolish brave juice, because I don’t cower.

Oh no, not me. I glare up at him.

I even consider biting his hand.

He bends so his face is merely an inch from mine. I can taste his breath. Sweet cigar and bitter vodka. It reminds me of Daddy. Grief is a blade to my tender heart.

I sob.

His eyes flare.

“You’re right, wife. I’m no thug. I’m a Volkov. I take what I want, when I want it. I hold a kind of power that you couldn’t begin to dream of. I’ve stolen the souls of men, and I’ll undoubtedly take more. I built the monster that lives within me, nurturing him with every soul I claimed, every light I snuffed. Every scream I drew from the depths of men far worse than me.” The pressure around my throat intensifies enough to have my weeping heart cowering. “I’ve taken lives, but I did not take you.” His eyes sweep my face, landing, and lingering, on my trembling lips. His hold around my throat gentles, his thumb stroking thin, vulnerable skin. His voice softens. “But I am keeping you, Ruby.”

Emotion burns my eyes. “Then how did I get here, if you didn’t take me?”

“You were a favor.”

“I don’t understand.”

“My brother took you. After your father killed his men, and attempted to kill him, a war was called. He took you as collateral.” He pauses, the dark fringe of his thick lashes nearly sweeping high cheekbones as he peers down at me. “And he gave you to me.”

I feel rattled and unbalanced. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at me. Maybe it’s the truth he’s unleashed. I can’t say, but all the parts of me feel so very raw, so very exposed, to all the jagged parts of him.

“I’m a person.” The words fall as a whisper between us. “I have a right to freedom.”

“You were never free.”

“I was.”

“No one is free.” He says it gently, like he’s telling me a secret that might very well crush my faith. “You were always a puppet, princess. A little worker toy that someone more powerful than you played with. You think you’re suddenly a hostage, but you’ve always been a prisoner. You’ve always been a captive, contained by a power far greater than you. A master puppeteer hidden behind the scenes of your life, of all the lives of the people who believe they are free. But what were you free to do, really? Choose your clothing, what you eat?—within the means that you could afford, of course, by a job you had to pay to acquire, to a government who steals in the name of the taxes that line the cloak he wears, as he preaches about social programs designed to further imprison the weak of mind and tired of soul? It’s a cycle old as time, and you scurried like the rest—running in your hamster wheel, convinced you were getting somewhere.” His soft laugh is fringed in disgust. “Your freedom was never more than a smokescreen designed by those smarter than you, to keep you pliable in your prison.”

He leans in even closer, his lips brushing my cheek as shattered faith shudders from my body on a weak exhale. “But let me tell you a secret, my little puppet. When the prisoners grow restless, their blinders clearing enough that they begin to see through the shades of compliance—when they remember their strength, and think for a moment, they might break free of their prison—the master puppeteers orchestrate the little civil wars that break out within the prison of society because,” he chuckles viciously. “It might be a dog-eat-dog world out there, but there’s always a pack of wolves waiting to feast on the carcasses in the aftermath.” I squeeze my eyes closed against the ugly picture he paints.

But the whip-like lash of his tongue strikes again. “Your freedom is confined within the laws intended to keep the workers working, the taxed paying, and above all else, the powerful protected.” He presses a gentle kiss to my cheek as he murmurs, “You’re a prisoner now, but you’ve been a prisoner always. The only difference, is now, you have the power of a master puppeteer—a bear—at your back.”

I turn my face to the side, away from his. I refuse to cry. “You’re ugly.”

“This world is ugly.”

“Not all of it. There is beauty.”

He chucks my chin. “There’s that smokescreen.”

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