Page 74 of Iron Rose

“Dad.” I said. I was surprised that this was the word that spilled from my lips, as though I had called him that our whole lives. “Please.”

Brett let out a long, aggrieved sigh. He looked at me, his eyes asking me if I was sure. I nodded.

“Fine.” Brett answered. “You should say your prayers every day to my daughter, for letting you live.” He toyed with the buttons of the boy’s shirt. “But…”

Brett walked to the table of torture implements and picked out a skinning knife. He let it glint in the light, and finally seemed satisfied. He went to the boy, unbuttoned his shirt, and with the knife carved a horizontal line.

The boy, to his credit, did not scream. He gritted his teeth and breathed.

“We will put you in a box and ship you back to New York.” Brett told him, starting another cut from the middle of the horizontal line and pulling the knife downward. “And you will deliver my message to Anton Vasiliev.”

The line he cut into the boy twisted up. He had carved a giant J into the boy’s flesh.

Brett stepped back to marvel at his work. “Tell him this is war.”

The boy nodded at his task, accepting it with some relief. Wounded and maimed was better than dead. And the boy was a survivor.

“Okay, that’s all fine,” I interjected, “but you’re going to at least put some air holes in the box and give him food and water, right?”

Chapter 30

Alastair

Brettneverleftherside for a moment, and I never got to speak to her. He slept in a chair by her bedside. During meals, he sat by her, getting everything she needed like a doting nursemaid. They laughed and joked, creating a world around them that kept the rest of us out. It had been two weeks, and I ached to have her in my arms.

There was no chance for me to offer my services. I could only watch from a longing distance.

Brett had spoken perfect Russian to the boy, Konstantin. I didn’t know enough to understand the words, but my ear was tuned enough to hear that he spoke like a native. Did the bastard have a secret identity? Like Rose? What was happening under the surface with these two?

More importantly, what did the boy mean when he said that they found Rose by chance? Was she identifiable because she was with him? Why did the bratva recognize Brett?

When Brett came in with a tub of creatine and put a scoop in her cup of coffee, she nearly cried.

She pouted, and whispered, “I love you, Dad.”

They lived in their own little domestic bliss, father and daughter, inourhouse. He provided everything she needed, and I was useless, hovering around them.

She was recovering fast. She was walking around within days, though she couldn’t go far. Stairs were a challenge. Which meant that there was no chance of her walking up the stairs to my room, even if she wanted to. I couldn’t lure her to me, and Brett was a wall keeping me from going to her.

There was a longing in her face whenever she glanced in my direction. At night, I comforted myself with the thought that maybe she wanted me to speak to her, but in the light of day, I couldn’t bring myself to say a word. I was too riddled with guilt to approach her.

I should have been with her. I should have walked her home. Or better yet, kept her on my lap and given her the aftercare she deserved. I should have made love to her in my bed until she chose to never stay.

Now, she was a broken doll, sleeping in a hospital bed with a helicopter parent that wouldn’t let me near her.

I didn’t fight him on it. I didn’t want to upset her or cause her any more distress as she recovered from her injuries. Injuries that she should never have had, that I could have prevented.

When her stitches were removed, Brett’s demeanor changed. He made her jog around the rose garden. She fell to her hands and knees at the end of each lap. From inside, looking through paned glass, I could see he was screaming at her to get up. She would, each and every time, determination on her face.

The sadist pushed her. He made her walk upstairs, then jog up to them. Then, he found our workout space, located on the ground floor. It had boxing equipment, a boxing ring, and all the weights and pull up bars that one might find in a rudimentary garage gym.

He put her on the treadmill and, each day, upped her elevation and her speed until she was sprinting. She was pushing herself, and her recovery beyond what was needed. What the fuck was Brett doing to her?

I caught him walking out of the gym while she was still on the rowing machine.

I’d had enough. I needed to step in. So I stopped him in the hallway, my hands in my pockets to keep from punching the man.

“You’re pushing her too hard,” I said through gritted teeth. “She’s still recovering from a bullet wound, for god’s sake.”

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