Chapter 12

Nicolai

I will find the people who did this to her.

I will find the ones responsible for reducing her to tears and devastation when given freedom, and I will kill them.

They’ve hurt her. Abused her. She isn’t the woman they tore from my arms. The Marissa I know doesn’t cower in fear.

Yakov and Erik retreat to their adjoining rooms, but I barely register their absence. I lock the door behind them and pull the shades that look out onto the water, securing us as much as I can before I return to her.

The only person in my world, the only sun that shines, is Marissa. Every instinct I own screams at me to throw her over my shoulder and run.

But logic prevails, and I know that isn’t an option. Not yet.

My initial elation at finding her is tempered with the knowledge that the path to finding her has only just begun. Finding her physically is only the first step. I stare at the woman on the bed, her eyes closed and knees tucked up to her chest. She rocks back and forth, mumbling incoherently.

I reach over and touch her shoulder. Just a gentle touch, a reminder that I’m here and she isn’t alone, but she shrieks, her voice catching on a sob. My heart twists in my chest, a stab of pain slicing through me.

She won’t know who I am, not yet.

Does she even remember me, though?

“You’re okay,” I begin, but she only shakes and trembles.

“It’s alright,” I say in an even softer voice. Still, her anxiety seems to only increase.

I decide to take another tact altogether. One she’s familiar with.

“Stop that,” I order harshly. She stills.

“Open your eyes.” With a sharp intake of breath, she obeys. She looks at me, and the world stops spinning in that one brief second. Does she recognize me? But the eyes that meet mine are distant and clouded. I realize she’s holding her breath, waiting for the next instruction. She’s become unaccustomed to conversation, her instinctive desire trained to obey.

My hands clench into fists.

I can’t risk even the most basic discussion about who I am or where we are. This room could be tapped. Literally anyone could be a spy. And I need the brotherhood to believe that I’m one of them.

“Get off the bed,” I tell her.

This isn’t the way I imagined our reunion. In my mind, I would gather her to me, hold her to my chest until our hearts beat as one. I would kiss her cheeks and run my fingers through her hair, reassuring myself that she was alive. I would hold her on my lap and kiss her, and tell her all the things I never said out loud. How much she means to me. How I’ll never let her be harmed again. How I love her.

She pushes herself out of bed and eyes me curiously, then casts her eyes to the floor, cringing as if expecting a blow from me.

I will kill them, painfully.

I sit on the edge of the bed and part my knees, crooking a finger silently for her to come to me. If I can get her near enough, I can whisper in her ear. We can begin the slow task of unearthing the identities that form us and forging new ones.

With her eyes cast to the floor, she walks to me until she’s standing between my legs.

“I’m a disappointment to you,” she whispers. It takes me by surprise. Why would she say such a thing?

“No,” I tell her. “Of course not.”

“I will obey you,” she whispers, wringing her hands. “They taught me that much. I will do as you command.”

It’s a start. A flicker of light in a cavern of darkness.

I keep my voice stern, commanding. It’s what she responds to.

“Good. You will do so. Come closer to me.”

She obeys slowly, her eyes still on the floor, walking toward me until she stands between my legs. I reach for her hand and take it between mine. When we touch, skin to skin, relief floods through me. I compose myself with effort, swallowing the lump in my throat as I take one of her hands in both of mine and bring it to my chest.

I have to tell her who I am. I have to see what she knows. I need to see what her reaction is when it’s just the two of us, with as much privacy as we’re allowed on this ship.

Her legs press up against mine, and I can hardly breathe. It’s Marissa.

My Marissa.

But she’s only a ghost of the woman she once was, and if I move too quickly she’ll vanish. Here one minute and gone the next.

So I don’t breathe. I don’t move. I observe every detail of her exquisite perfection. The light shines on her face, and I notice she’s got makeup on one cheek. I lean in closer. It takes me a moment to realize the makeup covers a bruise.

Without thinking, I raise my hand to touch her, and she flinches, as if she thinks I’m going to strike her.

Rage boils inside me so quickly, so viciously, I hiss out an angry breath before I can stop myself.

“What did I do wrong, master?” she whispers, cowering. She moves away as if to defend herself. I make a vow right then that whoever did this, whoever dared to raise a hand with her, will rue the day their hearts beat upon this earth. They will know pain the likes of which they’ve never known. They will suffer under the vengeance I’ll seek in retribution for the way they’ve treated her.

“Of course not,” I tell her, the effort at keeping my voice calm strangling me. “You please me very much.” I need to immediately dispel the notion that she’s displeased me if it causes her so much distress. I want her to know that she hasn’t done wrong, that my anger isn’t directed at her. “You please her very much,” I say, an understatement that kills me. She fucking makes me whole again.

When I touch her, she freezes. Gently, I tug her to me.

It’s taking all my self-control not to embrace her, to crush her to me and keep her away from anyone and anything that could hurt her. My sweet, sweet girl is within my grasp, but she’s not quite there. She’s just on the other side of the looking glass, beyond my reach.

“Marissa,” I whisper.

She closes her eyes and shakes her head. “That name…” her voice trails off and she doesn’t continue the thought.

“What is it?” I ask. “What do you want to say?”

“I-it reminds me of someone or, or something,” she says, still not meeting my eyes. “But I can’t place it… or who.”

Does she not remember who she is? Who I am? The thought fucking kills me, but I bat it away.

If she doesn’t now, she will. Her memory’s been tampered with. She isn’t herself right now.

I place a gentle finger under her chin and raise her eyes to mine. Keeping my voice as low as possible, I instruct, “Look in my eyes.” I hold my breath, unable to even think while she slowly, so slowly, obeys, her long lashes fluttering as she raises her head.

Will she recognize me? Will she know me? But when her eyes meet mine, I see only fear, and none of the recognition I need. She quickly bows her head.

“Forgive me, master,” she says. “I can’t. It makes me too fearful.”

Fearful of what, sweet girl? Of what I will do? Or what they’ve taught you to be frightened of?

How could they have done this to her? Marissa was feisty and headstrong, full of life and laughter, not this cowering woman who flinches at every sound and move.

“Do you know who I am?” I ask softly, reaching for her hands. I run my thumbs along the tops of her hands, feeling her soft skin beneath my touch.

It’s a fucking risk asking her this, and I regret the question the moment I open my mouth.

“Of course,” she says with a soft smile, and hope flares within me for one second before she finishes her sentence.

“You are my master.”

Somewhere deep in the recesses of my mind, I like her response. I hate that I do. I can’t take advantage of her when she’s broken. It would be heartless and cruel. But I can’t deny who I am.

The memory of what I wanted from her and what she gave me plagues me. Her obedience to me is like a drug: the more I taste, the more I want. Every breath she takes satisfies a need I can’t deny, every act of submission a hit that feeds my addiction.

But she doesn’t state my name. She doesn’t know who I am.

I’ve changed my appearance, enough to throw off anyone who might recognize me. I hoped it wasn’t enough to shield my true identity from her. But even as I think this, I realize it isn’t my physical appearance that is unfamiliar to her. Intense trauma can affect one’s mental capacity, even rendering temporary amnesia.

Gently, I run my thumb along the cheek where the bruise lies hidden beneath a covering of makeup. “Who did this to you?” I ask softly, while plotting his painful, tortured demise.

But before she can answer, a sharp knock sounds on the door.

“Who is it?” I demand.

“Erik. Open up.”

I will hurt this bastard.

“What the fuck do you need?” She flinches at the tone of my voice. Khristos, I have to watch my temper so I don’t frighten her.

Marissa stands in silence, her eyes cast to the floor. I still gently hold her hand.

“Tomas is on the phone. Wants live video footage of the girls we’ve found to give us approval. Says he tried to call you but you didn’t answer.” Tomas is the pakhan of the Boston Bratva.

Khristos.

I move Marissa aside with great reluctance, walk to the door, and open it. Erik and Yakov both stand in the doorway, holding chains in their hand. A quick glance shows the chains go to the necks of their slaves. Both women still wear simple sheaths. Erik glances over my shoulder with scorn, and even Yakov’s face is hardened, his eyes sharp as flint.

This is the first time we prove our worth to our new brotherhood.

“Come in,” I tell them. I have to assume the position as ruthless Bratva, the leader of our small group. I point to the floor. “Kneel by the bed,” I tell the women.

The girls obediently kneel, their heads bowed and hands in their laps, backsides against the soles of their feet. “All three of you,” I clarify, pointing to the floor for Marissa to follow suit.

She blinks and doesn’t move to obey.

“He’s calling again,” Erik says. He holds up his phone, flashing with a message from Tomas.

“On your knees,” I repeat, pointing to the floor. She looks from one to the other, then quickly steps toward the girls, falling to her knees just as Erik answers the call.

This is going to fucking kill me. I’m going to have to train her, to force her to obey me when she falters. If I don’t, someone else will, and I can’t allow that.

I walk to her and take her chin between my thumb and forefinger. “Do not hesitate again when I give you an instruction,” I order. “Do you understand me?”

Her wide eyes betray her fear. “Yes, sir,” she whispers. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Her response breathes life back into my heart and I can’t help but smile in approval. “Good girl.”

I release her, before I betray the intimate moment we shared.

“We’ve got them,” Erik says behind me. “They’re kneeling before us.” He lifts his shoulders with pride, puffing himself up. I want to break his nose.

I can see the profile of Tomas. My future pakhan. I don’t know him at all. I’ve worked under two pakhans: my father, and Demyan. Demyan still resides in Moscow, and my father in Atlanta. Demyan is stern but fair and loyal, my father well-respected and brilliant. I don’t know what to expect from Tomas, but he’s demanded the entry fee of a virgin woman, and that’s telling.

“Show me,” he orders. He’s sitting at a chair at a desk, facing us with one ankle resting on his ankle. He sips from a beer bottle, places it down, and crosses his arms on his chest. He’s a large, burly man with longish brown hair that curls around his ears, and sober, dark brown eyes. He wears a sleeveless shirt, revealing the signature Bratva tattoos that line his entire upper body.

Erik holds the phone up, giving him a full visual of the women kneeling before us.

“Excellent,” Tomas says. “They look lovely, but I didn’t expect anything less. You underestimate my request, though, Erik.” Tomas takes another pull from his beer bottle and he smiles. “I don’t want to see them clothed.”

I have to will my hands not to clench, so I don’t hurt one of them. Erik grins at the camera, and walks toward the women. I almost level him right then and there. If he touches her, I’ll murder him.

“I’ll help you with that,” I tell him, trying to come across as nonchalant but failing miserably. My hands shake with rage at what I’m about to do. I stand in front of Marissa.

“Head up,” I order. “Lift your arms.”

She obeys, keeping her eyes cast down as she does so. I don’t want to do this. I’ll fucking kill Tomas for making me. For laying eyes on my woman.

But if I don’t comply, I’ll never be able to get her out of here.

With a firm tug, I remove her sheath. I ball the fabric up in my hands. I want to wrap it around Erik’s neck and pull, until he writhes in my death grip and his body slumps lifeless to the floor. I step back, allowing the motherfuckers to see her naked, swallowing the anger that threatens to strangle me.

The other two do the same. The women barely react, clearly accustomed to being humiliated in front of others. The realization stokes my anger.

“Beautiful,” Tomas says, and I swear I can see his fucking hard-on from where I stand. “Fucking gorgeous. Well done, boys. Erik, get a close up of each of the women.” Erik stands back and holds his phone above his head, to give Tomas a clear view.

“Yakov purchased the blonde,” Erik says. “I was partial to the little Asian girl. And Aleks secured the brunette.”

“A nice variety,” Tomas says with a mirthless chuckle. “Veritable fucking smorgasbord.”

Oh no this is fucking not, I think. The brunette is fucking off the table.

“Are they well behaved?” Tomas asks. He has only a trace of the Russian accent I’m familiar with, but there’s something about him that screams pakhan. A ruthlessness to his eyes I’m woefully familiar with.

“We haven’t had them long enough to know,” Yakov says, his eyes focused on the blonde kneeling naked before him. “But time will tell.”

“I want them trained before you bring them home,” Tomas says. “We have no use for defiant women. You bought them as slaves, to obey their masters, and that’s exactly what I expect.”

Yakov and I nod, and Erik mutters, “Fuck yes.” The girls don’t move.

I want this conversation to end. If Erik doesn’t end the call soon, I will tear the phone out of his grasp and break it.

“Make them stand,” Tomas says.

“On your feet,” I bark out, before anyone else can tell my woman what to do. The three girls quickly get to their feet. Erik steps around them, his phone held high.

“The blonde is neatly shaved,” Tomas says approvingly. “I like it. She’s got perfect breasts.”

“She does,” Yakov says tightly. Seems maybe I’m not the only one who wants to stake a claim on a girl.

“And the middle one with the black hair has beautiful eyes. So petite and lovely.”

“Isn’t she, though,” Erik says. He runs the tip of his boot along her naked foot.

Fucking bastard. Like she’s a fucking car he wants to buy and he’s kicking the tires.

“But the brunette…” Tomas voice trails off. “She’s stunning.”

Marissa lifts her head so quickly the others jump, startled.

“Eyes down,” I bark. I do not want her fucking drawing any more attention to herself than necessary. But she doesn’t obey, panic flitting across her features. I can feel the stern disapproval over the phone, my two future brothers watching me to see how I’ll handle her. When I don’t make a move, Erik lifts his hand to strike her, and I react so quickly I have to school my features so I don’t snarl at him.

“I’ve got it,” I say to him, grabbing his wrist raised above her ready to strike.

He nods and winces. “Alright, alright,” he says. “Fucking let go.”

I release him so quickly he stumbles, rubbing his reddened wrist. I take a step toward Marissa. I know I’m on display for Tomas and Yakov and Erik, and I better not fucking mess this up. If he thinks she’s untrained, we’re fucking screwed.

Tomas chuckles on the phone. “Easy, Aleks.” He’s amused, the bastard.

I reach for Marissa’s chin and yank her eyes to mine.

“This is your last warning, slave,” I say, my voice tight with anger, though not at her. “Did you hear your instruction?”

“Yes, sir,” she says, nodding her head.

“Do you know what happens if you disobey a master?”

“I—I’m punished, sir.”

“Do you wish for me to punish you?”

She shakes her head rapidly. “N—no, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

“Step forward.”

She steps toward me so quickly she wobbles a little on her feet. I right her by grabbing her arm, then swing her out and slam my palm against the curve of her ass. She cries out. I hate myself. I fucking hate myself, because I like this. I like staking my claim on her and dominating her in front of a crowd.

“Apologize for your disobedience,” I order.

I despise what I’m doing, even the knowledge that this is for her own good no longer holding the weight it did just moments ago.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. “So sorry, sir.”

“Fucking stunning,” Tomas repeats. “I’m jealous she’s under your charge, Aleks.”

His voice is thick with arousal, like he’s stroking himself off in the shower, and I fucking hate him. “You know, she doesn’t seem too subdued. Ask her if she likes to be punished, Aleks.”

My voice shaking with fury, I address her. “Do you, slave? Do you like to be punished?”

Her eyes close and she whispers a brutally honest, “Sometimes, sir.” Her answer surprises me.

Sometimes?

Tomas chuckles. “Good answer, little slave,” he says. “I’d love a chance to make that always.”

Oh he fucking will not. There is no fucking way I’m letting him touch her.

“I like that one,” he repeats. “There’s something unique about her.”

Unique? She’s fucking one of a kind, her worth beyond anyone who’s ever stepped foot on this earth before and ever will again.

“I’ll be sure to train her well,” I say through clenched teeth. It’s the best I can do under the circumstances. I briefly consider where we are in the ocean, and if it’s at all feasible to leap off this ship with her strapped to my back and swim to a distant island. It’s as likely as waving a magic wand and transforming into a unicorn.

“Keep me updated,” he says. “I want pictures. Well done, brothers. I’m pleased with your choices and how you’ve followed instructions.”

My eyes are on Marissa, making sure she doesn’t step another toe out of line. I’m so distracted that I almost don’t hear what Tomas says next.

“You’ve done so well, brothers, I’d like to give you another task. This one both a reward and an instruction.”

My spine goes rigid. “You’ve purchased virgins and you’ve chosen well. You may have the privilege of breaking them in before you offer them to the brotherhood.” He sobers. “Take their virginity before you return. It’s the only privilege I’ll grant.”

Erik hangs up the phone and slides it into his pocket, grinning.

At first, I don’t understand why a leader like him would grant that “privilege.” Wouldn’t he want them untainted when brought before the brotherhood? But no, that isn’t his ultimate purpose. He wanted to be sure we had what it took to acquire them, and he intends on using them.

I look at the wide-eyed women standing before us. The blonde is breathing heavily, as if to steady her nerves. The woman in the middle fidgets but doesn’t say a word. Marissa stares at the floor as if looking into the distance, detached from where she is and what she’s doing.

“You’ll each keep your own woman for the night,” I tell them. I steel myself for what has to happen next. “You heard what he said. Be sure they’re properly trained for our arrival in Boston.”

Erik snaps the leash back on the collar of the woman he purchased, who follows him with her head bowed. Yakov snaps his fingers at the blonde and beckons her to come. Marissa stares at me, bewildered.

“Stay,” I tell her. “Do not move until I tell you.” Something flashes through her eyes.

She’d better not fucking recognize me now. The timing would be fucking brutal.

I have no doubt that if they hadn’t fucked with her mind, she’d have recognized me by now, but the combination of my different appearance, our circumstance, and the abuse she’s suffered have affected her perception. Soon, though, I have hope that the cloud of deception will disappear, and she’ll recognize me.

The way she’s looking at me now, though, I’m afraid she’s going to say something that risks us both.

She opens her mouth to say something, and I snap my fingers at her. “No talking,” I command, so harshly she flinches. Erik and Yakov have already begun to leave when she takes a step closer to me, defying my instruction to stay.

“What did I tell you?”

She halts at the harsh tone of my voice.

I hate the idea of punishing her. Of “training” her. I hate that other men have hurt my woman. But Khristos, if any one of them suspects who we really are, she will be taken back into their custody and I’ll be ripped from her grasp forever.

Erik raises a brow at me. Questioning if I’ve got the balls to train this woman. Yakov looks at me in solidarity, then shoots her a stern look as if to silently warn her to obey. Then they’re gone, but their rooms are on either side of mine. They’ll hear everything.

I have to keep our cover, even if it kills me.

She doesn’t know me as Nicolai, but she knows me as master.

It’s where I’ll have to begin.