Page 48 of Broken Sins (Volkov Bratva 3)

I snatch it away. “Slower,” I command. “You’ll vomit.”

She fixes me with a wary gaze, but nods slowly. I hold the bottle up to her lips and force her to take small sips.

I can see the color coming back into her face almost instantly. Tearing away the wrapper and plucking off a bite of the protein bar between my fingers, I offer it to her. Not to her hands, though, but up to her mouth. My thumb grazes her soft lip. Again, my manhood strains at the zipper of my pants. It wants out. I’m nearly overwhelmed by the sudden and vicious pang of craving.

Easy, Mateo,I tell myself.Remember what you came for. Remember what you have lost already to rash decisions.

That calms me. Enough so that I let her tongue flick out and take the crumb from my fingers and don’t feel quite the same level of urgency to rip the blanket away and press my mouth to her breasts, just so I can hear her moan.

We sit there for a few long, silent minutes. Just me and the daughter of my sworn enemy. I feed her water and food and say nothing. It is one of the most painful experiences of my life.

She is reviving before my eyes, though. Soon, she speaks. “Is this the part where you kill me?”

“No,” I answer at once. “Not yet.”

“Will you eventually?”

“Maybe. I am not certain yet.” I see no reason to lie to her. There is every chance that this will end with her blood being spilled. I hope to avoid the needless sacrifice of life, certainly. But in all the scenarios I’ve played out in my head and in my notes, quite a few end with the light fading from Milaya Volkov’s eyes.

She nods as she digests that information. She doesn’t look afraid, though. I can’t help but admire that. Here she is, in the belly of the beast, and she doesn’t quiver or scream. She’s strong, this girl. And cunning. That much is obvious. I need to stay wary.

“Have you had enough to drink?”

“For now. I think.”

“Then come. I have something to show you.”

I stand in one swift motion, then turn to help her to her feet. She struggles up, like a fawn just learning how to walk. She is putting on a brave front, but as she moves to follow me out of the cell, I can see that this captivity is taking a serious toll on her. She looks thin and worn.

“This way.”

I take her down a hallway, deeper into the recesses of the dungeon level. Left, left, right, down the short stairs, left. We reach my destination. I turn to face her before I unlock the door. Her face catches the lamplight. She looks—I suppose beautiful is the only word for it, though it feels inadequate. The skin of her face and shoulders looks sculpted from marble and she is scantily clad, yes, but her beauty runs deeper. It is in the jut of her jaw, the fire in her eyes, in the way I feel like she is looking through me. I have all the power here, and yet something tells me not to underestimate her.

“I am about to show you something that is … difficult. You will not like it. I want you to understand a few things before I open the door, though. What I am showing you is not a threat—unless you choose to interpret it that way. I won’t deny that we are capable of doing very painful things. But I don’t want to have to do that. I want you to choose to help us of your own accord.”

“Fat fucking chance.”

I laugh bitterly. “I understand why you would say that. Still, I have to try. You can cooperate with us, or I will have to resort to—shall we call it other methods?”

“Cooperate with youhow?” she snaps. “None of you will even tell me what you want. Is it my dad?”

I nod gravely. “It has to do with your father, yes.” I clear my throat. “But you must understand that before we can even present our requests, we need to feel that we can trust you.”

“I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

I can’t help but smile again. So much fire in this girl. “I thought you might say something like that. Let me show you what is behind the door.”

I unlock the door and pull it open slowly. I know what is inside, so my eyes stay rooted on her face.

Seconds pass. I hear the bell chime from far above us. The hour is late.

Frustratingly, she doesn’t give me as much of a reaction as I wanted. She blinks, shudders imperceptibly, then tightens the blanket around her shoulders. The only giveaway is how her eyes seem to retreat within her just a bit farther.

“You killed them.” She says it flatly, like it’s as much of a statement of fact as it is an accusation.

I turn my eyes to the cell. Four bodies are laid out on the floor, hands and ankles bound. They are young men, college-aged. One redheaded, one blond, two with darker brown hair. Each man is wearing what he was wearing the night we barged into the hotel room, and they all bear identical tattoos on their chests—the Greek letters chi and omega.

“They confessed they tried to rape you,” I say.

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