“Would you like a sandwich?” the Cowardly Lion asked, but he wasn’t talking to her. One of the newcomers stood in the kitchen with him.
“No,” the man answered. That was it. No.
The Cowardly Lion laughed at the man’s clipped tone. “It’s only PB&J. You have eaten it before, no?”
The man didn’t answer.
“I have been in America since I was sixteen years old, but it wasn’t until recently that I tried one myself,” the Cowardly Lion continued. “They are not bad. I’ve come to enjoy them, especially—”
“I don’t want your sandwich,” the man said, cutting him off.
“Ah, well, your loss,” the Cowardly Lion said. “There is no reason to be so uptight. Your boss is fine. Relax.”
“I’ll relax when this is all over,” the man said.
The Cowardly Lion sighed. “It will only ever be over when my brother gets what he wants.”
There was a commotion in the house then. The little girl squeezed her eyes shut, trying to not listen, singing softly to herself... the song from Toy Story. It wasn’t until the pantry doors moved that she opened her eyes again, coming face to face with the Cowardly Lion just as the front door to the house slammed.
The Cowardly Lion knelt down, setting a small plate on the floor, a sandwich on it. He was squinting, his eye watering, puffy and swollen, like he got poked in it. He said nothing to her, nodding in silence, before standing back up just as the Tin Man stormed into the kitchen.
“Follow them,” he barked.
The Cowardly Lion was gone in a blink.
The little girl sat up, grabbing the sandwich, her gaze shifting to the Tin Man.
He stood there, watching her.
It was the first time in weeks he’d so much as even looked her direction, since the morning he’d picked her up at the police station. The attention made her queasy, or maybe that was the hunger. She took a small bite, chewing slowly.
“You do not like me,” he said, almost a sad note to his quiet voice. “I do not know why.”
The little girl stared at him. She wasn’t sure what to say. She was even queasier now, as she set the sandwich back down. It was true, she didn’t like him. She hated him so much. But he should know that, she thought. He should know why she didn’t like him. “You’re mean. I want Mommy.”
“And you think it is my fault you do not have your mommy?”
The little girl nodded.
He stared at her... and stared at her... and stared at her some more, before he let out a deep sigh. “Your mother’s birthday is soon. Maybe I will let you talk to her. You can ask her to come home yourself.”
Chapter Seventeen
There are countless ways to torture someone. Whips and chains, fire and water, fists and kicks and unwanted touches... sleep deprivation, starvation, dehydration... branding and cutting and suffocating... you could rip my fingernails out with a pair of pliers, but none of it would ever be as tormenting as being sealed away in the darkness with nothing.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been here. Sleep has been my enemy. It twists time, manipulating the universe, strangling me with confusion. Nothing has made sense since the first moment I succumbed to it. I fall asleep in a black void and wake up again the same way, in and out of consciousness, exhausted and aching. Resentment flows through me, filling my battered body with indignation, the finger-shaped bruises covering my skin rooted so deep I can feel them even on the inside.
My soul hurts.
Wincing, I stretch my legs out, sitting along the basement wall, propping myself up against the cold metal cabinet. I’m wrapped up in an old blanket, the material rough and scratchy, but it’s thick enough to keep me from violently shivering. I huddle here in the corner, swaddled like a goddamn burrito, awaiting his inevitable return.
Kassian took my clothes with him when he was through the first time, leaving me lying on the concrete floor. I passed out, waking later to find the ratty blanket on top of me, the chain around my neck once more, a pack of crackers nearby. Dinner.
He’s returned a handful of times since then, in and out, disturbing the little bit of rest I manage to get. He asks if I want the mattress yet, if I’m ready to accept his generosity, and each time I refuse, he gets rougher.
And rougher.
And rougher.
A blast of light tears through the room as the basement door opens. I squeeze my eyes shut, pulling the blanket further up, shielding my face. Footsteps descend the stairs, slow and methodical, like a restrained march toward an execution chamber. Fitting.
I don’t look, keeping my head down as I hear his approach. I don’t want to see him, nor do I want him to look at me, but I know that’s wishful thinking. He’ll do what he wants.
Dried blood and dirt cakes the side of my face, the skin rubbed raw, scrapes all over my body. He stormed out last time, losing his temper, leaving me to wallow alone for far too long in the darkness.
“You are hiding from me now?” His voice is calm, so close... too close. “Does this mean you are done fighting?”
I don’t respond.
I have nothing to say.
He laughs at my silence, the sound running through me, making me shiver beneath the blanket. I can tell he’s crouched down, can feel his warmth disrupting the air, his cologne wafting around me, suffocating my senses.
“I always did love that about you,” he says. “You are so strong. So persistent. It makes you so much more beautiful when you are broken.”
I pull the blanket down, away from my face, and look at him when he says that. “You’ll never break me.”
His mouth twitches as he fights off a smile.
Reaching over, he presses his palm to my cheek, his thumb rubbing the scuffed skin. It stings. His hand moves as I grimace, exploring my battered face. I tolerate his touch until his fingertips gently caress my dry lips. He leans toward me, like he expects a kiss, but I turn away, refusing him.
Grabbing my chin, he yanks my head back toward him, his grip so rough a cry escapes my throat. He says nothing, staring me in the eyes, his mouth just inches from mine. Slowly, he leans toward me again, closing the rest of the distance, his lips just barely ghosting across mine before he pulls back.
“I brought you another present,” he says quietly. “Do you want it?”
“Not if it’s a euphemism for your penis.”
He laughs when I say that, like he finds me genuinely funny, and pulls his hand away from my face. He stands up, and everything inside of me tenses, because I think that’s exactly what he means. I think he’s going to unzip his pants, that he’s going to pull it out, and I’m tired... so goddamn tired... of being just a body. A body with holes, but one without a heart and a soul, a body to be touched and fucked and tossed aside afterward.
But instead, he reaches into his pocket and retrieves his cell phone before crouching down in front of me once more.
“It is nothing that exciting,” he says as he looks through his phone to bring something up on it. “It is just a little video.”
If he expects me to be relieved by that, he’s crazier than he looks. I’ve starred in his videos before. I know how they go. And I know there are cameras down here; I know he’s recording my every move. The last thing I want is to have to relive the things he’s done to me.
“I don’t want to see it.”
He raises an eyebrow, like that actually surprises him. “You do not want your present?”
“I want nothing you’re offering,” I whisper, turning away, gripping the blanket tighter to me as some of the cold seeps in.
“If you are sure,” he says, standing back up with a shrug and turning away as he says, “I thought you would want to see your daughter, but I guess I was wrong.”
I blink a few times when those words hit me, watching as he approaches the stairs, like he’s just going to leave the basement. “You’re lying.”
He keeps walking, his steps slow, but he casually holds his phone up, pressing a
button on the screen.
Instantly, I’m hit with her voice.
It’s like a baseball bat to the chest. It knocks the wind from my sails, the air out of my lungs, my heart seizing, viciously squeezing, like nothing inside of me wants to work. It hurts. Jesus Christ, it burns. Tears sting my eyes.
I can’t see her, he’s blocking the screen, but her voice sweeps through me like a wildfire. Her words are muffled from his hand over the speaker, but I can hear my name as she says it: Mommy.
So sweet, so hopeful, as she says that word. What I wouldn’t give to see her face, to have her in front of me, calling me that again.
Tears stream down my cheeks as I stifle a sob, shoving up from the floor, away from the wall, stumbling over the blanket as I clutch tightly to it. Kassian stops the video, hitting a button before pocketing the phone again, heading for the stairs to leave the basement.
“Wait,” I cry out.
He keeps going, like he doesn’t hear me.
“Stop!” I yell, rushing toward him. “Wait a second!”
I catch him just as he’s stepping out of reach, the chain choking me, making me gag as I grab the back of his coat, fisting the material.
Mistake.
Before I can even catch my breath, he whips around, snatching ahold of my arm and twisting it. I let go, crying out, as he shoves me back further into the basement, his grip tight, his face close to mine. His expression is dark, so goddamn angry, like he’s trying to skin me alive with just his eyes.
“Don’t do this, Kassian,” I whisper. “Don’t do this to her. Don’t hurt her this way.”
He curves an eyebrow. “Me?”
“She’s so young,” I say. “She doesn’t understand. You can torture me all you want… I’ll take it, all of it… but don’t do this to her. She isn’t like me. You’ll…”
“Break her?” he asks when I trail off, finishing the sentence that I couldn’t bring myself to finish. “You think I will break her?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“I am not the one hurting her,” he says. “You are. All she wants is her mommy, and it is not my fault her mommy would rather stay here and do this than go be with her.”
I don’t say anything to that, because quite frankly, I don’t know what to say. Nothing will make a difference or matter to this man who only sees the world in black and white, who views everything with tunnel vision, an Aristov-centric viewpoint where nothing matters except what he wants, and for some godforsaken reason, what he wants is me. He wants me broken. He wants to use me as he sees fit, and he wants me to buckle and just accept it… accept that my life is not my own, that my life will never again be my own. That my story ends tragically, locked away in his tower with no one coming to rescue me and no way for me to save myself.
And it would be easy… so easy… to just give in, to let it happen, to let him break me, so he’ll grow tired of this back-and-forth. And so many times I’ve been tempted to let go, to let him win, but I can’t, because she exists. This breathing little body, one with a heart and a soul… she needs saved from it all before her innocence is gone. Giving in to him won’t spare her. It’ll just doom her to a life like mine. A life of hurt, of pain, before one day he decides she, too, isn’t worth the trouble she brings.
Kassian loosens his hold on my arm, and I think he might leave, but instead he reaches up, brushing his fingertips along my battered cheek again.
He thinks my silence is a sign of surrendering.
“Do you want that mattress yet, pretty girl?” he asks, his voice low as he grasps my chin. “It is up to you.”
I remain silent, staring at him.
“You think, by not speaking, that you are saying nothing, but I hear you, suka,” he says, pressing right up against me, making me take a step back as his grip on my chin tightens. “I know every thought that passes through your mind. Stupid girl, thinking you can beat me at this. Still thinking someone is going to rescue you, that maybe your scarred little plaything cares, but I am sorry, so very sorry, because nobody is coming to help. He was here two nights ago, upstairs in my office, discussing the money I promised for turning you over, all the while you were laying down here, sweaty, sticky, covered in me. If he wanted you, he would not have just walked out that door. The sooner you get that through your head, the easier this will be. So I will ask you once more, and this is it… I will not ask again. Do you want that mattress yet?”
Fuck you. Those words are on the tip of my tongue, desperate to spring free, but self-preservation forces them back. As much as I want to say no, that I don’t want his goddamn generosity, I know I can’t… but I can’t say yes, either. No matter what I say here, I’m wrong. No matter what I do, I’m taking a risk, a big one… the kind of risk that could lead to the end of everything. So instead of answering, I just stand here, frozen, yet again refusing to acknowledge his question, which is probably the biggest risk of all.
Errr… scratch the probably.
I see it in his eyes, the flicker of rage that I know well, so intense that I gasp seconds before he even acts on it. As soon as I inhale sharply, his hands are around my throat, squeezing, choking. I lash out at him, desperate to get him to let go, scratching his face with my jagged nails before trying to pry his hands away from my throat, but he won’t loosen his hold. My vision grows fuzzy, my chest feeling like it might burst, and I fight with all my strength, flailing, punching, clawing, but nothing is working.
Nothing ever works.
I grow sluggish, dizziness rushing through my body. It strikes me at that moment, the realization that consciousness is about to be gone, so in that split second, I do the only thing I’ve got the strength to do. Poke.
I jam my fingers right in his eyes as hard as I can.
He flinches. He doesn’t expect it. It’s not enough to incapacitate the man, but it buys me a few more seconds, buys me another deep breath. Air rushes into my lungs as he shoves me, my legs too weak to hold me. I slam into the concrete, banging my head hard, pain rippling down my spine as everything goes black. It’s only a few seconds, and I feel like I’m going to puke when I come back around, but there isn’t time for it, there’s only time to react, because I see his foot.
It’s coming right at me, aimed straight for my face.
He’s about to stomp me into oblivion.
Oh god, no.
I turn my head, curling into myself, going fetal as he kicks… and kicks… and kicks. I protect my head, protect my face, but my body is a lost cause. There’s too much of it to shield from him as he rips the blanket away.
Russian words fly from his lips, too fast, too furious for me to understand. His leg must grow tired because he stops kicking, instead grabbing me. I don’t know what he’s doing as he yanks me around, pinning me down, until he fumbles with his pants, his body on top of mine, a hand around my throat again.
“I have been nice,” he growls. “We will see how easy you break when I am not being nice anymore.”
Go to your happy place.
Go to the house, the one with the red door and the white picket fence, the one where your daughter used to twirl around on the wooden floors. Go back to where nighttime meant kisses and hugs, bedtime stories and cuddles with Buster. Go to where sunrises were promises instead of just false hope. Go to where love still lives. Go to where you were happy.
Go there.
Stay there.
Don’t be here anymore.
I fade… fade… fade away, trying to ignore his touch, trying to ignore the pain of his hands and the brutality of his thrusts. I try to ignore the feel of his breath on my skin and the ugliness of his words. It’s hard, so hard, to block him out, when he keeps squeezing my throat, strangling the air from my lungs, making me teeter on the edge of consciousness. I try to imagine her instead, try to cling to her, but her face is lost in the shadows, her voice a fading whisper.
Blackness.
Blackness.
Blackness.
I’m choking, gagging.
I can’t breathe.
Flashes, again and again, flickers of reality as I’m in and out of it. I get lost in the blackness for too long at one point, the pain starting to fade away, a sense of peace taking over, before I’m violently yanked back to reality. Gasping, I blink rapidly and clutch the chain around my neck as I’m dragged across the floor by it. He lets go, dropping me on top of the rough metal grate, and I wince, wheezing, trying to get air, but it’s not enough, or maybe it’s too much, because I pass out right away.
“Wake up,” he says, his voice cold, seconds before something even colder slams me in the face. I sputter, my chest on fire. He’s spraying me with the hose. Violently coughing, I force the water back out of my lungs, trying to turn away, but he won’t let me move. Grabbing ahold of my face, he forces something past my lips, into my mouth. Pills, I realize, as I gnash my teeth, bitterness coating my tongue. Too many pills. He pours them right from a little orange bottle, still spraying me in the face, before dropping the hose, forcing my jaw shut and pinching my nose closed as he demands, “Swallow.”
I can’t. I won’t. I don’t want to. I fight him as he yanks me upright by my hair, but I can’t breathe, my chest convulsing. The pills slide down my throat, my ears clogging from the pressure as tears stream from my eyes. Satisfied, he shoves me back against the grate, standing up to shut off the hose.
Rolling onto my side, I start heaving, forcing myself to empty my stomach.
“Throw them up if you want,” Kassian says, his voice calm, “but you will regret it once the adrenaline wears off.”
I ignore him, purging as much as I can, but exhaustion gets the best of me, and whatever he forced down my throat works quickly. Parts of me are tingling as numbness takes over my body. I lay down, curling up, shivering from the cold as my eyes fight to close.
“I hate you,” I whisper, my voice cracking around those words.
Kassian crouches down in front of me, pushing my damp hair away from my face. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” I say. “You’ll never break me.”
“Oh, but I will,” he says. “You see, pretty girl, I have realized something. Being a mother is the most important thing to you. So while death would not break you, taking your daughter away will.”