Chapter 6

Six

R uby

"I have every intention of keeping you, Ruby." The words echo in my mind. There is a dangerous threat weaved into that statement. Something dark and sinister. Something that touches deep inside me, stroking an untouched place. Something forbidden.

Something I should run from.

I can't move.

I'm frozen before him, my head tipped back to look up into the hard lines of his striking face. The impenetrable abyss of his cavernous eyes. Sometimes, I fear his gaze alone could swallow me whole.

I swallow. It's an audible, although wordlessly reluctant admission, of my fear.

Interest sparks in his eyes when I lift my chin in challenge. An act of bravery I don't feel. "I thought you said I had a choice."

"I did."

I clear my throat. "What were they again? My choices?"

He quirks a grin. In response, unease spills inside me.

His voice is so deep. "You can go with your brother, or you can agree to be mine."

"Why can't I go home?"

"That is no longer a possibility."

"Why?"

"Because your father was Ivan Popov. He was a very bad man. A very dangerous man who made many enemies." He pushes off the desk, closing more of the little space that stood between us. The scent of him pushes toward me, and I hold my breath. He smells good . But I hate him.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"He was the head of an organized Russian gang," he speaks quietly, but there's a deadly firmness to his every word that has a chill seeping to my bone.

"What does that make you?" Hadn't he said my father—or the man he believes is… was my father—tried to partner with his family? Had gone to war with his family. The Volkovs?

"It makes me the most dangerous man you'll ever meet." His dark eyes flash. "After my brother, Ilya, of course. The man is a fucking psychopath."

The way he speaks the words, with very clear affection, scares me more than anything else thus far.

"I don't know what any of that has to do with me going home." I just want to escape this hell, and forget I ever lived any of it. Goodness, I'm going to need therapy for the rest of my life. On a librarian's salary, that's going to sting.

"As I said, your father was a dangerous man. When he was alive, you had his protection." He smirks. "Whether you knew you had it or not."

I shiver. "And now?"

"Now you don't. You're a sitting duck. Free for the taking by any number of his enemies to do with whatever depravities they want."

I flinch, horror-struck. "You can't mean…"

"I can. And I do." He cocks his head to the side, studying me. "Whatever terrible thoughts you're entertaining. It's worse."

"You're saying people would seek me out, and hurt me, simply because I was his daughter?" What a ludicrous idea.

"I'm saying that Ivan Popov destroyed a lot of lives. He betrayed a lot of dangerous people, and the knowledge that he hid a precious daughter—" He tips his head closer to mine, voice pitching low with threat. "A little princess. Well, there's no telling just how many of them are hunting you now."

"But—" I sputter. "You said he's dead."

God, even the words hurt. Daddy. Who were you?

"He is."

"Then what's the point." I'm so frustrated, I want to pull at my hair. I want to scream. "It's not like they would be hurting him by taking me."

"Oh." The dark pitch to his voice turns black as night. "But taking you would be so fun."

I take a quick step back, an involuntary need to escape the devil that is this man. To cower and hide. My heart kicks, lurching as I topple back. The chair I'd been sitting in before catches me, and I gasp a small shriek when he bends forward to plant massive hands on the cushioned arms that imprison my body.

"Make no mistake, my little Ruby, you are a beautiful woman—but you were his little princess. You shimmer with the exquisiteness of your namesake; your innocence of this world is a rare and coveted thing. Men would murder and maim to possess you, as they murder and maim to possess the gems, they pluck from the bloodmines." He inhales through his nose, and I feel as though he's inhaling me. My fear. My desperation. My sorrow… "Understand now, those who hunt you, who shed blood to possess you, they won't be tender with you. You will not be safe from the ruin you will know under their touch?—"

"I choose my brother," I cry out, hating that fear quakes inside my bones, rattling my entire body to the very foundation of my crumbling soul.

I've never felt hunted ever before in my life. Growing up in a small American town, I'd frequented the church and related activities. I attended school. I spent my time in the library, or strolling in the parks, safe from these men who prey on women like animals. But the way he towers over me like this, his massive body angled to hover over my much smaller, terrifyingly weaker frame, makes me feel like a kitten in the jowls of a bear.

He breathes out heavily through his nose, still hovering above me even as I angle my face away, unable to look at him. Tears stream down my face, shame leaking from my body as I do my very best to sob quietly. To be unseen.

I've read literature of strength in war. Of sorrow and resilience. My most favorite, and deeply beloved books speak of the trials and tribulations a single soul can overcome endowed exclusively with will .

It appears, my will is broken. Or maybe I never really had any to begin with.

I've always thought myself strong. I've always considered my faith in God unshakeable. My resilience to be good and strong and compassionate, ironclad. I was so deeply, painfully, agonizingly wrong.

I am none of those things. I am weak and fragile and so very afraid.

I am broken.

It only took one monster to ensnare me between his claws, and I've crumbled. I don't sit in the silence of the practiced under pressure. No, I'm the one who crumbles and chips away. Who sobs and pleads. Who shatters.

I'm so ashamed.

And I feel so betrayed. By my father for being whatever he was. By Mama for leaving me in death to face this mess alone. By the very God who gave me this life.

I'm angry.

The man pushes away from me, his stroll back to his desk, lazy. I watch as he swipes his phone from his desk, his thumb punching into the screen. Then I listen in silence to the ring.

A man answers, his English slow and heavily accented, but still clear. "Kirill." Is that my devil's name? "Ilya tells me you have my darling sister."

"I do." He puts his finger to his lips, warning me to stay silent.

I don't think I could speak if someone promised me an island away from the whole of this ugly world. My grief—my anger—it's all too much.

"I hope you are calling me to arrange a trade."

"What you do you think I want for her?"

The man—my brother, I suppose—considers. "An end to this war?"

"The Volkovs are winning. Give me a better offer."

I can't believe this is happening right now.

"I hear you're considering a wife. That you need an heir."

My brother drops a pause. Kirill, my monster, speaks. His voice is low and lazy. "I'm listening."

"I have girls. Beautiful girls."

My devil's lip twitches. "You think I want your stolen property, Artyom?"

I feel my stomach drop into my feet. Is he saying—does he mean—is he talking about trafficked people? No.

Hadn't he implied the same of my own father? The man who cared for, and protected me, so diligently from the horrors of this world. Who held me between tender hands? The very same man who relayed to me his disgust at the flippant way girls and women today gave their bodies—and how my body was to be cherished. A temple. Not to be given thoughtlessly or outside the vows of marriage. The same man who sheltered me so diligently—he couldn't be this terrible thing they claimed. Could he?

God, please…

"Is it not better to have a cunt who knows her place than a woman who believes she is free?" Artyom asks, disbelieving. "No, you want trained pussy. Pussy who knows her place. Looks pretty in the pictures. You can kill her when she gives you your heir." He pauses, considers again, and then, "But if you want a virgin?—"

"What will you do with your sister?" Kirill's eyes hold mine as I sob in silence. My heart and soul are so terribly sore. My faith? Ruined.

This world is far from the beautiful place I once thought it was. The good I believed once prevailed has been smothered under the flame of this hideously gruesome reality that exists in the shadows beneath a smokescreen of handsome smiles and wealth. I hate it.

"Why do you care?" The tension in Artyom's voice seeps through the line, a dangerous thing.

Kirill laughs, but it's not real. It's a dark response to the tension in Artyom's question. "She's been—trouble."

"She will break."

"I'm curious, will you kill her?"

"My father's little angel? No." It's Artyom's turn to laugh, but it's a bitter, angry thing that is tinged in jealousy. He'd known of me—of my existence. "I'd rather see her torn to pieces. I'll make his precious angel a whore, as he's made so many other beautiful dolls, whores. Eventually, when she's been used one too many times, I'll have to put her down. If someone doesn't put the little bitch down for me."

Kirill's eyes drill into mine. I know exactly what he sees, an acceptance of my fate.

Here.

With him.

As his.

This is about survival. And he is the devil I know…

"You know, Artyom," Kirill drawls lazily. "I think I'll be keeping Ruby, after all."

Artyom starts to speak, rage spewing from Russian curses before the line goes dead.

"Tell me, Little Ruby, is that your final answer?"