Page 30 of Broken Sins (Volkov Bratva 3)

“You’re awake,” he comments casually.

I try to say something, but my throat is too dry. Nothing comes out but a wordless croak. I lick my lips, work up some spit to swallow, and try again. “Where am I?”

The man chuckles. It sounds like gravel tossed down a garbage disposal. “Nowhere you want to be. That much is certain.” He laughs again, and I wince.

My head is pounding so hard. I’m still hazy, though the clouds in my head are beginning to part somewhat. I fumble for what to say next. I have a billion questions floating through my mind, but none of them are fully formed. They’re more like the intention to ask a question than the actual words of the question itself. It’s like,What …? Why …? Who …?without the rest of the words filling in.

I know immediately that I won’t get any answers from this man, though. He looks like the kind of hunter who plays with his food before he kills it.

“Am I still in LA?” I rasp.

“Yes and no.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing you want it to mean,” he laughs again. I wish he would stop sharpening that knife. It’s not helping my headache at all.

“Am I a prisoner?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Am Iyourprisoner?”

“In some ways.”

“Are you going to give me any straight answers?”

He tuts. “So many tough questions from such an innocent little girl. Or maybe … not so innocent. Maybe not so innocent at all.”

He rises to his feet, keeping that knife gripped in one hand. He is absurdly tall, or maybe it’s just the way I’m lying down. But he is tall and broad, broad enough to fill the whole room. All I can see is that knife he’s holding. Slowly, he struts across the five or six yards between us. He doesn’t make any noise when he walks, like a cat prowling in the night.

He stops just a few inches short of the table I’m lying on. I can’t see the knife anymore from this angle, though I know it’s still dangling down there, waiting to be put to use. I focus on his face instead. If I keep thinking about the knife, I’ll puke. If I keep thinking about the fact that I’m chained to a table, I’ll puke. And if I keep thinking about how naked I am and how ridiculously, inexplicably handsome this beast is, I’ll definitely puke. Pretty much no matter what happens next, I’m going to puke. So I just hold my breath and wait.

Maybe he’s going to kill me now. That knife is sharp enough to do the job in one quick swipe. It’ll be over fast, assuming he goes for the throat. If he goes for fingers or toes first, though, I could be here writhing in agony for a long time. That thing is scalpel-sharp now, the kind of sharp that splits you open long before your skin even realizes that anything has happened to it. And, given how naked I am, he has a lot of skin to choose from.

I start to ask, “Are you going to kill me—?” But the man lays a gloved finger over my lips. I can taste the flavor of raw leather emanating from it.

“Shh,” he says. “Now is not the moment to be asking so many questions, princess. All will be revealed in time.”

My eyes are wide with fear now. It has become unbearably clear that this is not a dream. I am truly naked, truly chained to a cold metal table in some fucked-up dungeon, truly being shushed in a not-unkind way by a man holding an insanely sharp knife.

I want my dad.

That was how I ended up here in the first place, wasn’t it? I wanted to get out of that hotel room, away from the Frat Stars, and I thought that going with the cops was my best route away. That is turning out to be a mistake of epic, maybe even deadly, proportions. I hopped out of the frying pan and into the fire. This is much worse than anything a UCLA frat douche could dream up.

This is a horror show.

And where is my father? Thousands of miles away, on the other side of the country, without the slightest hint that his daughter is about to be violated, murdered, chopped up, whatever the hell else this sicko and his friends plan on doing to me. My dad could stop this, if only he knew. But how could he know?

I haven’t even gotten to the “Why me?” part yet, though that’s an obvious next step. Nobody knows who I am in this city. To all those I’ve met, I am Milly van der Graaf, biology major, quiet, studious, innocent. Why would anyone kidnap a girl like that and chain her to a table?

Breathe. Breathe or you’re going to die, idiot.

I need to think of a way out. That plan will definitely involve sticking to my assumed identity. Under no circumstances can I admit who I really am, even as a threat. If anything, telling them I am my father’s daughter just makes me a valuable hostage. It is best to convince these guys that they have kidnapped the wrong girl.

That’s the only chance I have.

“You cost me everything, princess,” the man mutters. I’m not sure whether he’s talking to me or to himself. Either way, that’s a scary sentence.

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