Chapter 57

Chapter 56

Wren

THE MINUTE my brain pulls me from the dark, I know something's off. There's a rank stench in the air, like a mix of sweat and stale beer. Beneath me is a mattress that's as thin as a pancake and twice as lumpy. Not the stinking tile floor I was on.

Fucking hell, where am I?

Nilo!

I hope that scrappy little shit is okay. My last memory is of two Russian gorillas closing in, hands itching to choke me out. I hope Nilo ran. But I doubt it; he was high as fuck.

Right now, I've got my own shitstorm to weather. Testing my bonds, I find my wrists and ankles tied tight. I'm spread out, my bare skin kissed by the chill of the room.

Goddammit, not again.

My mind starts replaying past nightmares, but I push them down, force myself to stay in the here and now.

Duct tape smothers any cries for help, reducing me to desperate, muffled whimpers. I tried to break free earlier, but all I got for my troubles was a swift kick to the ribs. It's hard to tell how long it's been – too long, that's for sure.

Where the hell did these bastards dump me?

As soon as I get free, I'm gonna paint the walls with their brains. I should be out there, finding Sophia. She's got herself in a deep shit.

I stay quiet and listen. The chatter from outside is my only clue to reality. A voice rumbles through the night, deep and full of sick joy. It's a brute, laughing like he just hit the jackpot.

"Ivankov Bratva's gonna fuckin' drop like a stack of bullshit cards," he sneers, spewing out words coated in harsh Russian accents. His grating cough follows, each sound hitting my eardrums like a punch.

Ivankov Bratva. No clue who the hell they are, but the name keeps gnawing at the edges of my mind.

A memory flashes by. Granddad, rocking in his old armchair, spouting off in Russian. He was a mean drunk, but he never forgot his mother tongue. Even when I was a little girl, curled up in a corner, trying to be invisible, I'd hear him. The Russian lullabies he sang when he was sober, the slurred curses when he wasn't.

I guess you can say I'm half Russian, a quarter American, and a quarter walking disaster. I remember how Granddad once told me, right before he passed out on the kitchen floor, that knowing your roots can save your life. I never knew what he meant until now.

Another voice chimes in, smoother but laced with a malice that sets my nerves on edge. "Those Ivankov pricks won't know what hit ‘em come Saturday."

What the hell's going down on Saturday?

Urgh! I can't be bothered right now. Gotta think.

"Aleks has got a nice little ‘welcome home' gift for that Ivankov shithead…right in his own damn nest," the bear-like voice grunts, perverse satisfaction oozing from his words.

"But screw that, let's get to the good part," the smoother one chimes in, his voice now sharpened with a cruel excitement. "It's been three damn days since I've had a good fuck," he groans, his voice echoing with a depraved kind of eagerness. "And we got us a feisty one today." A grin creeps into his tone as he continues, "She's hot as hell. I heard she took down Vlad and Yuri with a rusty old pipe downstairs. Lucky for us, she's in our territory now."

Oh, how nice of them to talk about me.

A bitter laugh threatens to break free. They don't have a clue what they're dealing with.

Bring it on, you fuckers.

The stench assaults me first. A cocktail of cheap cigarette smoke and stale vodka, the kind of smell that crawls up your nose and sits there festering. I can hear sounds through the thin walls – sobs, moaning, and screams. It's the soundtrack to hell, and I'm smack-dab in the middle.

Then, the door creaks open, and in they stroll. Two Russian assholes, laughing and joking in their bastard language.

"Dobryy vecher, suka," the bigger one leers, looking me up and down like I'm a piece of meat. "Good evening, bitch," his greeting translates to.

Stupid fucks. They're talking to me like I can't understand them. Little do they know, I've got a front-row seat to their twisted show, and I'm taking notes. Every vile word, every disgusting joke. It's all fuel, and when the time's right, I'm gonna burn these assholes to the ground.

In response, I give them a glare that should've set them on fire. Behind the tape, I grin, making a soundless laugh. Something about it pisses them off, and that's my win for the night.

"You think this is funny, suka?" the big one snarls, his laughter gone. The smaller one smirks, his eyes scanning me with a hunger that makes my skin crawl.

"Can't wait to feel your cunt, kurva," he leers, licking his lips. He's touching himself as if it's a sexy tease.

Gritting my teeth, I let the rage fuel me, keeping the fear at bay. Their words are vile, their intentions clear, but they don't know who they're dealing with. I've fought back from worse, and I swear on everything holy, I'm gonna make these pricks pay. I'm not one to break so easily. I have plans, too, and theirs doesn't factor into mine.

I'm gonna burn their godforsaken world to the ground. Let's see who's laughing, then.

The puny bastard edges closer, his grimy fingers clamping around my tit, circling my nipple. He grins like he's hit the jackpot, but he doesn't know shit.

My laughter bounces off the walls, muffled by the duct tape but clear in my eyes. He isn't laughing anymore.

He peels the tape off my mouth, recoiling at my derisive smirk. "You two big cocks," I rasp, my voice rough from the tape. I flick my tongue over my lips, suggestive, crude. "Bet you're aching to get a piece of this."

His brows climb up his forehead, but I plow on, "Just look at me, all trussed up." I roll my eyes toward my bound hands. "Ain't gonna be a good ride, is it?"

The stunned silence that meets my crude provocation is priceless. They expected a scared little mouse. Instead, they've got a wildcat. They're about to find out how deep the claws go.

"I can do better than this," I continue, my voice a low purr. I tilt my head to the side, regarding them with a wicked glint in my eyes. "Bet you boys haven't been properly taken care of in a while. Let me do that for you."

The Russian men are eyeing each other now, disbelief creeping onto their faces.

"I've got a mouth that can do wonders. I can suck you so good, you'll see stars," I say, licking my lips with a carnal smile. "And these hands," I flex my fingers as much as the bindings allow, "they can stroke you until you explode. But you gotta let me free, hun."

The vulgar invitation hangs in the air, a dirty promise. They're floundering now, their expectations and plans for me all twisted up. They expected a victim, not a viper.

The sick grins on their faces tell me they're falling for it. The smaller one saunters over, pulling out a knife that gleams in the dim light. He's excited, panting almost as he drags the edge of the blade from my cheek down to my neck. Pressing hard enough to score my skin, a slight sting trailing in its wake. I chuckle low and throaty, letting them believe I'm relishing in the pain.

"Yes, baby. I like that," I tease.

You are going to fucking die.

He proceeds to cut the ropes binding my wrists. The sudden freedom has me flexing my fingers discreetly, allowing blood to flow back into my numb hands.

He's not done. The knife continues its slow, torturous journey downward, the cold metal skirting past my breasts, down my stomach, right to the hem of my panties. I let out a deliberate moan, the sound hollow in my ears, but the Russian bastards lap it up like starved dogs. It's all about stroking their massive egos. He then moves the blade to the ropes at my ankles, cutting me free.

I cast a sidelong glance at the larger man as he unzips his filthy jeans, revealing his painfully erect cock. It's a revolting sight, but I don't let my disgust show.

"Get over here, big boy," I purr, struggling to sit up. The ropes around my wrists have left their harsh imprint, but I'm free now – naked, but free. "Let me take care of that for you."

The men stare at me, hunger in their eyes. I smile, running my tongue over my dry lips. "Look at those big, hard cocks of yours," I taunt, my eyes flicking between their dicks. "I bet they'd feel damn good in my tight cunt, filling me up."

The bigger man steps closer, his giant, rock-hard cock looming before my face. I feign admiration, lapping at the leaking head, tasting the salty pre-cum. "Mmm, tasty," I lie, steadying my voice. "Can't wait to have you pumping in me."

Off to the side, the little shit is fondling his own rod, his greedy eyes fixed on my tits. He's lost in his own dirty fantasies, oblivious to the knife he used to cut my ropes lying close by.

I shift on the mattress, writhing in feigned pleasure as I stroke their cocks, bringing my hands up and down their shafts. The lewd sounds they make only fuel my determination. I'm so close now, so close to the knife. One wrong move, and I'm done.

"You boys like this?" I purr, my gaze flitting between them. Their replies are incoherent groans, their eyes shut tight, their focus entirely on the sensation.

The small goon's eyes squeeze tighter as he pushes into my grip, his hands pinching my tits. And that's my chance. My hand flicks behind me, fingers brushing cold steel.

Two seconds – that's all I need.

I clasp the knife, swinging it around in a sharp arc, slicing through the smaller goon's cock in one swift movement. He doesn't even have time to scream. I'm onto the next one, the bigger bastard. I cut him down just as quickly, his dick severed, too.

Blood sprays, staining the cheap sheets. Their screams echo, piercing through the grimy room. Outside, I hear footsteps pounding, voices shouting, and then gunshots. My heart beats against my chest like a war drum, adrenaline pulsing through my veins. I'm ready to fight.

The door bursts open, revealing a large, muscular man holding a gun. He freezes, eyes wide. "What the fuck," he utters, taking in the bloody scene.

"Fuck off!" I warn him.

"D!" a voice calls out over a radio. "We've got him."