Page 22 of Emerald

That’s the way it works.

But Ivan Petrov isn’t going to believe that.

I don’t know which alternative is worse: him believing me, or him thinking I know nothing.

Because the only thing keeping me alive right now is his curiosity.

It’s hard to tell how much time is passing. There are no windows in this room, and I can hardly hear anything from above, except the odd bump or creak, which might be a chair moving or someone walking around, or just the bones of this ancient building shifting in the wind.

As impossible as it might seem, with the peril and physical discomfort of my current situation, I’m starting to get sleepy. That’s the effects of the adrenaline wearing off. I’ve been in a state of high anticipation for hours now. My body can’t sustain it. I’m just plain tired.

The ancient wooden door creaking open snaps me to attention.

It’s Ivan Petrov.

He’s back. And he’s alone.

He stands in the doorway, the harsh overhead light turning his face to a mask of sharp lines and shadow. His dark eyes are boring into me, drilling right down into my soul. It takes everything I have to hold his gaze, to keep my face steady and still.

No matter what happens, I’m determined that I’m not going to break down like I did when I was thirteen years old. I won’t blubber and cry.

Ivan Petrov approaches slowly. I can hear the heavy sound of each footstep. He’s put on a white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose his thick forearms with their covering of dark hair. He’s wearing slacks and polished black loafers. He’s combed his dark hair back from his face. Probably showered as well—his hair looks slightly damp.

He takes hold of the empty chair, then drags it closer to me. He sits down so that we’re facing one another.

He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and his hands loosely clasped in front of him, knuckles facing upward. His change in posture sends waves of movement across the slabs of muscle on his shoulders and arms, beneath the thin material of the dress shirt. His hands are huge, the knuckles slightly misshapen. From pounding, hitting, breaking bone.

I’m all too aware how strong this man is. Up in his bedroom, he overpowered me in moments. It was like trying to wrestle a lion—he and I aren’t even the same species. I didn’t stand a chance against him then, and I certainly don’t now, tied up and locked in this tiny room with him.

He’s silent, staring at me.

That means the interrogation has already begun.

As my father always said, “He who speaks first loses.”

So I keep my mouth shut, as the tension stretches out between us.

At last, Petrov says, “Why did you come here tonight?”

He has an extremely deep voice, with a harsh edge to it. Anger simmering right below the surface.

I can tell he’s just as keyed up as I am. I have no intention of playing games.

“I came here to kill you,” I reply.

His right eyebrow quirks upward. He’s surprised I admitted it so readily.

“Why?” he says.

“I was hired to do it. That’s my job—it’s nothing personal.”

“It’s a little personal to me,” Petrov says.

There isn’t a hint of a smile on his face, but I hear the amusement in his answer all the same. This man is a brute, but he has a sense of humor.

“How did you get in?” he asks me.

I consider if I should answer.

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