Page 11 of Twisted Prince

To my left, Annie continues to sniffle. Her plan seems to consist of simply buckling under the weight of our misfortune, and that enrages me. It’s mean, I know. I shouldn’t take my anger out on her. Of the girls who Gleb rescued along with me, she’s been the closest thing to what I could call a friend. But I hate that she’s just giving up. Not now, after all that we’ve survived.

To my right, Tif is entirely too silent for my liking. I hope she’s only passed out and not dead already. No one should have to die tied up like an animal and awaiting a cruel fate. But I can’t stop thinking about that blank look in her eyes, and I’m worried her head injury might be serious.

Not that I could do anything about it, even if it is.

So, instead, I focus on what I can use around me.

But try as I might, I can’t find anything that will help me cut my bonds. The truck rocks back and forth, bouncing with every pothole and rough patch of road. Each bump makes my stomach do ugly flips, threatening to force my lunch back up my throat.

It takes hours to reach our destination, and though I want to stay alert, to try and decipher where we might be headed, by the time we finally come to a stop, I have no clue where we are. We could be north, south, or west of the City, and I wouldn’t have the slightest idea which one.

All I know is that it doesn’t take hours to get to the coast from our Harlem apartment. So we’re not east—unless I missed the part where we boarded a ferry.

Light floods the back of the truck as two men roll the door open once more. Our captors climb out first, shielding their eyes from the early morning sun. Then it’s our turn. Hooking their arms through our bound elbows, the men cart us off the transport truck.

My stomach plummets when the door closes, but they’ve only unloaded ten of us. At least Annie and Tif are both still alive and part of the select group. I don’t like the thought of being split up. But I really don’t like that the rest of the girls have an even longer journey to survive.

I don’t have long to think about it, though, as I’m jerked forward and forced to march into the treeline off the gravel path we drove in on. I’m greeted a short while later by a small wood cottage sitting in a wildly overgrown clearing.

It could almost be romantic, fairy-tale-esque with its rough-hewn wood, the round river rock that shapes the chimney, and the natural oak wraparound porch. It’s like a dream house from my imagination—except for the hauntingly vacant-eyed windows that have bars locking them shut.

“Welcome to your new home, ladies,” a man drawls as he exits through the front door of the cottage. Mockingly opening his arms, he welcomes us like a gracious host. “At least until you’re auctioned off. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Mikhail couldn’t break away from his responsibilities to greet you. So I’m here instead, but I assure you we’re going to have a lot of fun together.” His gaze rakes appreciatively down my body, lingering on my breasts. “A lot of fun,” he repeats, his tone heating with an anticipation that makes my stomach curdle.

The man’s graying hair and stony eyes give him a scowling Clint Eastwood vibe—only far creepier and much less handsome. A shiver of repulsion ripples through me at the way he undresses me with a look. I can feel his slimy hands all over me before he’s even touched me, and I pray that I die before that actually happens.

“In case you ladies didn’t know,” he continues conversationally, “Mr. Sidorov intends to send you to some of our best and most… particular clients. The real nasty ones who get off on fucking pretty girls’ minds as much as every one of their virgin orifices.”

The man approaches, his eyes molten as he strokes a long finger down the side of my face. I jerk away as my skin crawls from the clammy contact. And though tears prick my eyes, I refuse to let him see the horror he instills in me. So I glare at him, willing him to spontaneously burst into flame.

His lips curl into a wicked grin. “I can’t wait to see how much they’ll pay to break your spirit, pretty little thing,” he murmurs, the sound of his voice like an unwanted caress.

5

GLEB

Neither Pyotr nor I slept a wink before loading onto his private jet before dawn. The short flight up to the Veles estate is brimming with silent anticipation. As the men gather in the vast entryway of Pyotr’s Upstate family chalet to prep their weapons and pocket their ammo, I can feel the excited vibrations in the air.

It’s organized chaos, soldiers gearing up for battle, the conversations a low chatter of anticipation. And I walk through their ranks, ensuring everyone will be ready to go and out the door as soon as Pyotr gives the signal.

The strategy is simple. Strike hard and fast, before Mikhail even knows we’re in the neighborhood. Pyotr and I didn’t have much time to plan beyond the best way to infiltrate his property without calling attention to ourselves. And at this point, I don’t see a better tactic.

But I’m less than thrilled about the situation we’re in today. My intuition won’t shut up about the fact that something’s off about this whole situation. The only reason I’m willing to press forward with my pakhan’s plan is that all signs point to Mel and the girls having been taken to Mikhail’s estate. So maybe I can get them back today—two birds with one stone, so to speak.

Still, I can’t shake the uneasy feeling that I’m missing something.

Like perhaps this was all a ploy, and Mikhail was just waiting for us to chase him down so he could sweep in and lay claim to our Brooklyn territory.

I’ve been reading the signs long enough. And after yesterday, I’m confident we have a traitor in our midst. How else could the Zhivoder keep timing things so perfectly? Yesterday, they lured me to Imperia, knowing I would be too far from the girls to be of any help. And that’s when Mikhail struck, taking them when he would find the least resistance.

He must have someone on the inside, someone who knows all the moves Pyotr’s key players are making. Which is why I watch the men closely as they prepare. I search every face for traces of treachery, any hint that someone’s not who they say they are. I’m trying to keep my mind broad until I have proof of who’s the rat. But I have my suspicions, and I’ve made them perfectly clear to my pakhan—even if they’re not what he wants to hear.

This morning, Pyotr’s bodyguard, Efrem, is silent, brooding, his eyes intent on his task, but his mind is miles away from here. Perhaps thinking about how he might warn Mikhail we’re here, if he hasn’t already.

The unspoken rivalry between me and the blond behemoth has existed from the day I stepped off Pyotr’s plane from Chicago. I’d always assumed Efrem’s healthy amount of suspicion toward me was due to the level of trust I managed to gain with his pakhan while Efrem wasn’t around to vet me himself.

I’ve always overlooked the “pretty boy” jab he uses for my nickname, assuming he had some unresolved resentment over my quick ascent to the role of Pyotr’s bratok. But in recent months, my gut instinct has been warning me that something’s different. And it wouldn’t shock me one bit if he’s our turncoat.

As if sensing my eyes on him, Efrem looks in my direction. His intense blue eyes scrutinize me for a fleeting moment. Then, he gives a curt nod before returning them to his task. It’s not just our rivalry or the way he looks at me—with an unnerving level of perception, like he sees everything and would like nothing more than to crack open my skull and dissect the inner workings of my mind.

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