Page 85 of Heritage of Fire

Seawater mist hits my face. No longer blocked by the containers, the wind whips harshly against my skin.

The guards carry me up a set of stairs and through a large metal door. Inside, the air is no longer fresh and salty; it’s turned stagnant with mildew and the acrid odors of fuel and oil.

I’m shuffled down a long corridor. If I weren’t so worried for my life, I’d be worried about the sanitation of this foul-smelling ship.

I’m jostled through another door, and the men secure me to a metal chair. My head is pounding, and with every jerk, blood seeps from my wound. I’m left alone to my own thoughts and painful headache.

There’s a set of bunk beds bolted to the wall, and a small porthole provides natural light. Off to the side, a workstation has been set up; a pen rolls on the desk with each movement of the ship. A soft hum vibrates within the room which leads me to believe I may be near the engine room.

As I sit here, trying to take stock of the room and my injuries, a prickling sensation behind my eyelids has the room going blurry for a new reason. Tears well in my eyes and burst down my face. I can’t suck in enough air—the humidity in this room is suffocating.

I work to take deep, steady breaths, in through my nose and out through my mouth. As my racing heart settles, my thoughts drift to Nik. How mad will he be when he finds out I left—and that I used his name to get my sister out?

Imagining my father’s reaction is chilling. I know, because he’s said as much, that he would never put his family above the Cosa Nostra. Which means I’m better off dead.

Footsteps echo along the hallway on the other side of the shut door. With a loud creak, the door shoves open, and in walks the same tall beady-eyed man who took me in the first place. He’s still in a suit, but his hair is freshly windblown, and deep dark circles shadow underneath his eyes.

A cell phone is positioned in front of my face, and with one click, he takes a photo. After typing something, he holds up the phone. “For proof of life,” he says with a snicker.

“What do you want?” I find myself asking. “My father won’t answer any of your demands.”

“It’s not your father I’m counting on.” He pulls a chair from the corner and sits down right in front of me.

Is he talking about Luka? I doubt the Bratva would risk anything for me. I was a party prize. Nik signed on the dotted line and earned himself a wife he neither wanted nor nowwants. Sure, he may enjoy my company, but not enough to risk his organization.

The man crosses his arms. He peers down his long pointed nose at me, and I realize he looks like a gecko.

I let out a small laugh, but it quickly turns to tears. The man darts his tongue out to lick his lips, and I crack up even more.

I’m officially losing it.

“Is something funny about your current predicament, Mrs. Balakin?” I stiffen at his use of Nik’s last name—ourlast name. I hate the sound of it on his tongue. And I hate the fact that he’s going to try to use me against Nik. To appeal to his good side and loyalty by dangling me in front of him.

I amnotbait.

“No, Mr …” I pause, realizing I don’t know his name.

“Rose.”

I raise my eyebrows and sneer. “No, Mr. Rose.”

“Well, then,” he says, drawing his chair closer, “I suggest you keep the laughing at a minimum.”

The stench of his breath is worse than the molded air. His hand finds my knee and I jerk it away as far as I can. It’s only a few inches before the ties around my feet prevent any further movement.

My maneuver doesn’t deter him. Placing his hand back on my knee, he inches it back and forth in a stroking motion. Bile threatens at the back of my throat as spindly fingers graze high and higher until I’m thrashing and trying to jerk aways as far as I can. He digs his fingers painfully into the top of my thigh, inching his face close to mine.

“I really hope they decide you’re expendable. I have delicious things in store for you, my little puppet.”

I rear my head back, saliva pooling in my mouth before I let it fly. The spit lands right below his nose. A snarl curls his lips, but then widens into a disgusting smile as he licks the wetness off his face.

“While I enjoy your taste, you must learn to listen.” He backhands me across the face. A sharp burning pain radiates across my jaw before the tingles turn numb. Heat crawls up my neck, the humiliation of being slapped like an insolent teenager infuriating.

Don’t cry, Luna.

Mr. Rose rises from his chair, palms rubbing down the front of his thighs. “Our members at EV always do like the feisty ones, but sometimes we need the girls to be pliable. That’s why we have this.”

He removes another syringe from his pocket and panic washes over me. Images of half-drugged girls in cages flood my mind, and I jerk in my chair unable to move.

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