Page 138 of Inked Adonis

It’s like a nightmare where you’re caught in endless hallways and no door will open. No matter how many times I run the scenario, lying here leads to death. Either at the hands of Ilya or one of the goons I can hear cackling and drinking down the hall.

Or, if I get out of here, maybe Samuil will kill me himself.

I bury my sobs in my sleeve. No one who hears them will come to help.

Like Ilya said, I brought this on myself.

I should’ve let my father kill me. At least then I would’ve died knowing Samuil trusted me. I could’ve died with my dignity intact—whatever that’s worth.

Now, Samuil will show up and execute me like the traitor he thinks I am.

Will he wait for my explanation? Even if he does, will he believe it?

If I were him, I wouldn’t. Not with the evidence stacked against me. This time, I did exactly what Ilya is accusing me of. My intentions won’t mean shit.

I don’t sleep, but I drift in and out of awareness as the laughter in the other room grows louder and wilder. Ilya’s voice is missing from the mix, though.

Maybe he’s gone.

Maybe I can escape.

Escape to where, I have no idea, but that’s not important now. If I stay here, I die. The only chance I have is to get up and try.

Getting up, however, is torture. My joints grind together with every movement. I have to bite my lip bloody just to reach for my crutch.

“Hey!” I croak. “Hello?”

The drunken chatter continues uninterrupted. I slam my crutch against the metal bed frame, wincing as the sound reverberates through my skull.

Finally, the laughter dies down.

“Is it the girl?” a deep voice asks.

A chair scrapes concrete. Someone grumbles, “Lemme check.”

Hulking footsteps thump down the hall to my room. A mountain of a man appears in the doorway. His snub nose wrinkles. “What?”

I sink in on myself, trembling. “I’m going to be sick, and I can’t… I need help.”

“Well, don’t do that shit here. I’ll have to clean it up.”

“Help me to the bathroom.” I fake a dry heave hard enough that I think I might actually throw up. Zero points for originality, but the classics are classic for a reason, right?

The man moves surprisingly quickly for someone his size. His huge hand wraps all the way around my bicep, his fingers overlapping, and when he wrenches me off the mattress, I want to scream. Instead, I hang limply in his hands.

“Move your feet,” he barks.

“I… can’t.” I heave again, and with a snort of disgust, the giant drags me down the hall to a cramped bathroom.

The floor is more grime than chipped tile and thick bars pass over the windows. He deposits me on the floor like taking out the garbage.

“Can you crawl to the shitter? I don’t wanna mop.”

One glance tells me no one has ever mopped this room. But I nod, weakly scraping my body over the cold floor. “Thank you.”

He grimaces at my gratitude and turns away.

“Throwing up,” he announces to the rest of the men as he rejoins them, earning him a laugh. “She ain’t going anywhere for a while.”

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