Page 137 of Inked Adonis

“She’s my responsibility.” I grip the phone so hard the case creaks. “If anyone is going to question her, it will be me.”

I need to see her face. Need to look in her eyes when I ask her about the Andropovs. About her father. About every lie she may have told me.

Because if she has betrayed me...

No. I can’t finish that thought.

“How are you going to do that all the way from Moscow?” Ilya’s voice drips with mock concern.

“I will take care of Nova.” Each word comes out precise, measured. A promise. A threat.

Ilya just laughs again. “Go right ahead. You’ll just have to find her first.”

The line goes dead.

48

NOVA

I wake to the sound of crunching plastic.

Ilya stands over me, slamming a water bottle onto the rusty metal table beside my cot. Everything in this hellhole is rusted or rotting, which seems fitting. This is where hope comes to wither.

“If you die, it won’t be because of dehydration. Bottom’s up.”

He’s right—it’ll probably be a bullet to the back of the head. Quick and clean, if I’m lucky. Slow and messy if I’m not.

The effort of sitting up sends screaming pain down my entire right side. It hurts enough that I can’t respond with more than a scowl. My stomach betrays me by growling loud enough for him to hear.

“You must be hungry.” He gestures to a plate of sandwiches beside the water bottle. The bread edges have gone stiff and dark, like they’ve been sitting out for hours. Days, maybe.

At least the water bottle is sealed.

“I’m not eating anything you give me.”

He rolls his eyes, looking bored. “I wouldn’t kill you with something as pedestrian as poison. In any case, keeping you alive is more interesting.” His expression shifts to something crueler. “You should’ve heard my brother after I showed him your little home movie. He’s livid.”

My eyes burn but produce no tears. The irony isn’t lost on me—maybe Ilya’s wrong about dehydration not killing me after all.

I roll onto my side, swallowing a groan as fresh pain pulses through me. My body aches. My mind aches. Even my soul feels bruised.

I just want it all to stop.

“You brought this on yourself, Nova.”

The sound of my name on his tongue makes me want to scrub my skin raw. But he must get bored watching me suffer, because his footsteps retreat and the lights click off, leaving me in darkness.

I count to fifty before lunging for the water bottle. My desperation is pathetic—half of it splashes down my shirt as I gulp it down. Within seconds, the bottle is empty.

I still want more.

Falling back onto the cot, I stare up at the crumbling ceiling. Time has become fluid since they brought me here. Hours, days—who knows? I drift in and out of consciousness, my only markers being Ilya’s visits and the sound of his men laughing down the hall.

I can’t let myself imagine what Hope or Grams must be thinking. I can only pray they don’t come looking for me.

The only thing worse than me being here would be them being here with me.

My eyelids slip closed, but even the thought of sleep is laughable. As exhausted as my body is, my mind is operating at a constant, frantic hum.

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