Page 77 of Alexei (Belles & Mobsters 4)

I stared at the dirty stone ceiling, a chill in the air. The room stunk of mold, blood, and sweat. The sounds of moans, flesh against flesh, a slick pounding traveled through the air and the thin glass window. Most teenagers had views of landscape out their windows, or oceans, if they were lucky. Not us here. We only had a view of orgies going on, voluntary and involuntary ones. Or fights that ended with blood and death. Every. Fucking. Time.

I’d die here.

Five fucking years. I couldn’t remember the feeling of being free anymore. Maybe it was a fantasy. Or just something that kept pushing me forward so I wouldn't end it all right now. Because this was a living hell.

A bone chilling, cold hell.

A slick rhythmical sound had my eyes shifting to the left and found Igor sitting by the only window. He watched with a sick fascination all the fucked up shit happening in the ring while jerking off.

There were five of us left. There were thirty of us crammed into this room two weeks ago. Maybe it was three weeks, fuck if I knew. I never knew if it was day or night, what day of the week.

We killed them all. It was the only reason the five of us were still here. Because we were stronger. I contemplated so many times to let another beat me in the ring. But the instinct and the need to survive always prevailed.

There was so much blood staining my hands, nothing would save me. Even if I succeeded in leaving this shithole, I’d always be a killer. It was the only thing I knew how to do.

Igor started grunting, jerking off faster and harder. If he strangled his cock any harder, he’d lose it. It wouldn’t be the worst thing. Fucking voyeur jerked off several times a day. It was probably the reason Ivan didn’t bother taking him into the ring for anything but fighting. The bastard knew Igor would like being fucked out in the open. The rest of us weren’t so fortunate.

I fucking hated thinking about it. It made my skin crawl. Ivan still hadn’t granted us a shower since yesterday and my skin stunk like them. The women. The men.

Bile rose in my throat and I shoved it all away. Otherwise, I’d lose what little I had in my stomach.

Was it worth it to survive all those fights to endure all this shit?

Abuse. Rape. Torture.

A whimper yanked me out of my memories and I instantly tensed, searching out Aurora. She was curled into a ball, facing away from me.

I turned on the bedside lamp and was out of the bed in the same second, then rushed around the bed.

She was thrashing her head back and forth, her body curled as if she was trying to protect herself. Her lips pressed in a tight line as if she didn’t trust herself not to say a secret. Her brows furrowed and her forehead glistened with sweat.

I gently shook her by her shoulder. I didn’t want to scare her, but I didn’t want to leave her in her nightmare. I knew firsthand how bad they sucked.

“Wake up,” I whispered. “It’s just a dream.”

“No!” she whimpered, squeezing her eyelids shut as if she couldn’t bear to see whatever was in her dreams. I couldn't help but wonder if I was in her nightmares.

“Rora, wake up.” I tried the nickname I heard her brother use. It felt invasive to use it, but I didn’t like seeing her distress. Her breathing labored and another whimper slipped through her lips.

“S-stop,” she cried out. “P-please. Don’t hurt her.”

My heart tripped and my throat squeezed painfully. The vulnerability in her voice and terror on her face was the worst punch in the gut. I wanted to kill any man or woman who had hurt this woman. And how ironic that I was one of those people.

“Kroshka,” I murmured in a soothing voice. “You’re safe.” Her eyes opened and relief washed over me. “You’re safe, kroshka,” I whispered, smoothing her scrunched brows.

Her dark eyes watched me, her body unnaturally still.

“You had a bad dream,” I explained, keeping my voice soft. Though I worried my voice was too rough.

She didn’t move, her dark hair sprawled across the pillow and pain in her dark eyes. She blinked her eyes. Then again. Her lower lip quivered and my insides physically hurt.

“What is it, kroshka?” I asked her. “Who do I have to kill?”

A lone, sparkling tear rolled down her cheek and my hand shook as I brushed it off. Maybe I was the subject of her nightmare and she was scared.

“Santos hurt her,” she rasped, her voice hoarse. “He made us watch.”

My shoulders tensed, her words sending a roll of shock through me.

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