Page 32 of Heal Me

“What the hell did you do?” Mikhail barks as he approaches me in the corridor the next morning.

“Fuck you,” I say and walk past him, but Mikhail, the reckless fucker, grabs my arm, making me halt.

I turn to him and stare him down. The effect is usually stutteredyes sirsor blabbered apologies, but Mikhail is unaffected, holding his stance, hands on his hips, eyes glaring straight back at me.

“I told you I couldn’t spare to lose a trainer,” he says in that annoying, berating tone, like he’s my father or some shit.

“I did you a fucking favor. The guy was a goddamn liability.”

“I don’t give a fuck. I told you to keep him alive.”

I point my finger at his face. “He fucking touched what’s mine, so he dies. Let that be a fucking lesson to everyone else here.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Yours. What’s the deal with this girl, anyway?”

“None of your damn business.”

“The hell it isn’t. You work for me. At least that’s what you’re supposed to do. Not spending all your time on one fucking girl, who shouldn’t even be here. She’s been in that padded cell for God knows how long—weeks? Months?”

Having had enough of this shit, I turn my back to him to leave.

“It’s time you get rid of her. Today. Take her to the incinerator and get on with your real job. You’ve had enough playtime.”

Ignoring him, I gnash my teeth together as I think about how Lavinia would love that.

When I keep walking, he adds, “If you don’t do it, I’ll have someone else take care of it.”

At that, I whip around and stalk back, getting into his face. “If something happens to her, you’ll pay. I’ll take you to the incinerator myself and burn you goddamn alive. Do you understand?”

Mikhail doesn’t even flinch even as I lean in over him. He just looks me dead in the eye, his expression calm and collected. Then, out of nowhere, he goddamn grins. A full, wide smirk spreads over his face. “Ah, I see what’s going on here. You’re turning soft. Like Dax.”

I scoff. Dax and I arenothingalike. He might be the only person I tolerate around here, but I’m nothing like him and his American arrogance.

“Here’s the deal. You’ll run the auction tomorrow night and cater to every little need of my customers while I go find a replacement for Jan. If they’re satisfied, I’ll let you keep your little pet.”

“You know I don’t do that shit.” I fucking hate those rich assholes, and what’s even worse is being at their beck and call, trying to please their ridiculous requests to drive home a good deal. I don’t care about the money. Never have. Not like Mikhail and Dax, who get a fucking hard-on whenever they see a little money rolling in, despite having more than they’ll ever be able to spend. It’s fucking weak, is what it is.

He shrugs. “That’s the deal. Take it or leave it. Or take the girl and leave.”

I roll my eyes. He knows I’m never going to leave this place of my own free will. I hate that Mikhail holds that power over me, but this is the only place I’ve ever fit in—the only place that keeps me from going crazy. And Mikhail is the only person I respect enough to refrain from beating to a pulp when he bosses me around like this. And maybe more, I refrain because I need him here. Without him to take care of the business side of things, some other shithead would step in, or I’d have to do it myself, and that last part sure isn’t going to happen. That incident with the tough-ass rich guy wanting to see a full-teeth extraction was more than enough buyer contact to last me a whole month.

And now, I have to agree to even more buyer contact. I fucking seethe, but mutter my agreement anyway. “Fine, I’ll do it.”

I turn to walk away, and Mikhail calls out with a smug tone, “Enjoy your pet.”

“I fucking will,” I mutter under my breath.Once I find a way to rid her of her suicidal wishes and stop her from hating me.

22

LAVINIA

The straitjacket becomes an intimate, unwanted friend during the next few days. So do the drugs. Dorin keeps me in a lethargic daze all day, all night, strapped in the straitjacket and drugged up, unable to move, unable to think, and barely able to speak.

“I hate you,” I tell him in a slurred voice every time he comes into my cell.

“Shh,” he simply soothes, stroking my hair out of my face or pulling me up to sit against him so he can feed me. When I beg him not to drug me again or tell him that my arms are hurting from being trapped in the same position for so long, he simply strokes me again and says, “It’s for your own good. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

There’s no possible way I can. I feel so weak I can barely turn on the mattress most of the time. The drugs rarely get to wear off enough to give me a clear head before he comes and shoots me up with more sedative.

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