Page 8 of Shadows of the Past
I try to slip past him, but he blocks the doorway with his massive frame, easily twice my size. There’s nowhere to run.
“You really don’t get where this is going, do you?” he sneers, voice thick with contempt. “I’m doing you a favor, muñeca. Ivan will break you a hundred times over before he ever gets bored.”
He unfastens his belt, and his pants hit the floor with a dull thud. My stomach lurches. In one swift motion, his boxers follow, and cold terror rips through me. Tears spill down my cheeks, hot and silent.
He’s going to rape me.
The thought crashes through my mind, thundering over everything else. Panic gives way to something raw, primal, that I’d rather die than let him touch me.
He lunges, his weight crushing me against the wall. I drive my knee up hard, slamming it into his groin. He howls in pain, but his fist snaps across my cheek, sending stars exploding behind my eyes.
For a split second, I almost hope he’ll just keep hitting me. Bruises will heal. A fist can’t kill me. I claw at his face with every ounce of strength I have left, my nails raking deep. Blood beads up in the scratches, and his scream tears through the room.
“Can’t wait to see Ivan rip those claws right off you,” he spits, and his fist slams into my face again, harder this time.
Everything blurs. My mind drifts, slipping away as darkness closes in. My last conscious thought is that at least I won’t feel it.At least I won’t remember.But my body will.
Chapter 5
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Maksim
I stare at the body of the eight-year-old lying in the grass, eyes open but vacant. We're about three hundred yards from the house, right where the small woods begin. This is the third child we've found like this. The bruising around his neck tells its own story—strangulation marks standing out against pale skin. Even in a house where violence is as common as breathing, this method stands out. Too clean, too bloodless for the monsters who live here.
Someone new hunts among us. The first two times, I blamed Ivan, figuring he'd lost control in a moment of rage. But when he heard about this morning's discovery, he nearly exploded with fury over losing money on a boy destined for a client in Hong Kong.
My "cousin" Aleksandr made my suspect list too, but his signature method involves knives; cutting is his language of choice.
"How'd they avoid the cameras?" The voice of Akim, my right hand, pulls me from my thoughts.
Another problem. How did they bypass security? How did they access the keys?
"I don't know, but we clearly have a new monster to track. Tell Zoya to be careful when she leaves at night."
Akim nods, crossing his arms over his chest.
"I'll bury him with the other two tonight. Oh, Max, the Mexicans delivered a special order. Ivan already claimed one."
Perfect. Just what we need. The Mexicans always send girls barely legal, recruited through financial desperation or simple wrong-place-wrong-time misfortune.
I run toward the house, fists clenched tight enough to grind wheat between my knuckles. His voice and moans reach me before I even enter, bile rising in my throat.
Soon, Maksim. Soon.
Soon he'll be dead. Soon I can dismantle the horror he created and takes such pride in.
Crying filters through the door, and I know whoever's with him isn't there willingly. But I've learned my lesson about intervention.
Last time I took initiative, Vera didn't survive. Though many would prefer death to this torture, they need to endure. We'll escape this place. All of us.
Nothing pleases him more than witnessing agony on his victims' faces. I'm convinced it's his actual food source; the suffering and screams of every soul he tortures fuels him.
Another cry echoes through the door, and I have to lock my muscles in place. I can't go in. It would make things worse. But a voice whispers in my head:Could it possibly get worse?
I force myself to stand here whenever he brings someone new. My way of cleansing my conscience. I can't save them now, but I can suffer alongside them. Each scream, each sob reminds me of all the nights this monster came to my room to show me what a "real man" does.
I close my eyes and breathe. The sounds from the room grow muffled, and I know he's probably finished. Eight minutes flat. That's how long it takes him to tear out a soul and make it bleed.
