Page 12 of Scarlet Promise
I’m in the middle of nowhere.
The chances of Ilya finding me are so small, it may as well be zero.
Maybe I’m not bait or anything else. Maybe they mean to kill me, send the photos to Demyan and Ilya, and bury me where no one will ever find me.
I’m not sure why they’d go to the trouble if Melor wants the Belov Bratva. There is no other reason I can think of. The whole operation is so big and convoluted that it’s all I can think about. Otherwise, why didn’t they just kill me instead of kidnapping me?
They want something, and me alive is their way of getting it.
None of this fills me with hope.
The door opens, and Melor walks in. The scratches on his face please me, and I hope I damaged his balls. I hope they ache every time he moves and pees.
He throws something at me, and it hits my chest. I look down. A sandwich. Cheese from the looks of it. White American bread with a thick orange chunk between the slices.
“Eat.”
I glare at him. “I’m tied up, so it’s a bit difficult.”
“How’s your face? I should have broken your nose.”
“How are your balls? I should’ve castrated you.” I shouldn’t have said it, but I couldn’t stop myself.
He laughs, but I can hear a note of anger and pain beneath it. “Fucking stupid bratva princess bitch.”
He storms closer, snatches up the sandwich, and pulls my head back.
I clench my teeth to stop crying out.
“I said eat.” He shoves the sandwich against my closed lips until I open and have no choice but to take a bite. But then he keeps pushing it in until I start to choke.
Then he steps back, letting me go.
I chew and attempt to swallow, but my mouth’s dry. Luckily the bread’s so soft that it just forms a weird ball, and I manage to get it down.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask.
He shrugs. “It’s simple. Ilya took something from me, so I took something of his in return.”
My stomach roils.
He means me.
Maybe I’m not bait… That makes me shrink back.
“What are you going to do with me?”
Melor doesn’t answer.
All of my previous thoughts come back. Trafficked. Sex slave. Rape victim. I know all three are the same, but there are degrees, and they’re all awful.
But this man humping on me? This man sharing me with his men? That’s a special sort of torture.
I don’t think he means something as easy as death.
Melor pulls a bottle of water from his back pocket, cracks the lid, and shoves it at my mouth. “Drink.”
I open to drink the water because I need it. But he doesn’t really care if I get any in my actual mouth, and it ends up mostly all over me with only a mouthful for me to swallow down.
