6. Mel

Creepy Clint Eastwood leers at me as the girls and I are forced into a lineup across the cottage living room for an inspection. His look alone raises goosebumps on my arms, but tonight, it's worse. Because they've stripped us down to our underwear, and I can feel their hungry gazes caressing every inch of my exposed flesh.

"Mm. Looking good, ladies," he says, walking slowly before us as his men maintain their hold on the chains linking us all. "Not long now until you'll be ready to auction off."

It's been days since we heard rapid-fire gunshots in the early morning hours.

And since then, nothing.

Nothing but twice-a-day visits from Mikhail's men for bathroom breaks and meals.

For a few agonizing hours of holding my breath, I thought those gunshots might mean Gleb found us—that he was coming to save us once again. But based on what little I could gather from Mikhail's men, Gleb, along with most of the Veles clan, are likely dead. And any survivors soon will be.

Which means I have no hope of escaping my fate this time.

The nine girls here with me and I have been chained in the bedroom all this time. Along with Tif, Annie, and me, they found Tori and Leah, the other two girls who chose to stay under Pyotr Veles's protection and rent a house with us. Neither girl was home when we were taken. They were abducted right from under their employers' noses, and their guards were killed just like Igor. So, they're here with us, along with five girls I don't recognize.

All beautiful girls—not one of us over twenty—and the youngest, just barely fifteen.

My stomach knots whenever I think about what we all have in common. We're all virgins—or as Creepy Clint Eastwood puts it, "untouched pussy men will pay more than a pretty penny to break in." Too bad for him, he doesn't realize what a piece of shit my uncle is. I might still be a virgin, but the sick fuck was taking money to let men touch me in other ways long before he sold me off to the Zhivoder clan.

Mikhail's captain—the one I refer to as Creepy Clint Eastwood but who the men refer to as Zmeya—stops in front of Tif. My stomach knots as his steely eyes narrow, his inspection growing more detailed.

"This one's taking too long to heal," Captain Zmeya states, gripping her chin to more thoroughly examine her cheek.

It's turned an ugly shade of purplish black from where she was struck, and the cut looks puckered and angry. I'm nearly positive she suffered a concussion, too, though thankfully, she seems to be recovering.

"We might have to bump her auction back a few weeks," he says, his voice harsh with impatience. "If she doesn't end up scarring, that is."

The man standing beside Zmeya nods, making a note on his clipboard.

"And find out who hit her so hard," the captain states. "He needs a lesson in treating the pakhan's property with more consideration. It costs money to keep these girls alive. It creates more risk the longer we have to keep them. And she won't be worth anything to us if this cut becomes a permanent mark."

"Sir," the notetaker acknowledges, scribbling faster.

"You, on the other hand…" Creepy Clint Eastwood says softly, his eyes shifting to me. "You have such nice dark skin. I bet it takes a lot to make your bruises show, doesn't it?" He steps close, brushing the back of his knuckles over my still-tender face, where my abductor backhanded me.

A wicked smile creeps across Zmeya's lips when I flinch. The hair-raising feeling of spiders crawling across my flesh makes me shudder as his predatory gaze turns lewd.

"What I wouldn't give to keep you for myself," he purrs, his gravelly tone making him sound even sleazier. "I would love to see just how much it would take to break you. But I know Mikhail would never go for it, considering the price you'll sell for."

He glances toward the notetaker beside him, his countenance snapping back to practicality in an instant. "She's ready for the auction tonight. Get her cleaned up. And put her in something… tropical." He snorts as if something humorous just occurred to him. "See if the madam has a seashell bra or some shit. We'll get a better price for her if we showcase her as exotic."

I don't know who this madam is, but I want to gouge Zmeya's eyes out for appraising me like livestock. This is why I hate men. They only ever look at women like commodities, beasts to control, warm bodies put on this earth to satisfy their sick fantasies. They use us up until we're empty husks. Then they just… throw us away.

"Fuck you," I hiss, my hatred boiling over, consuming my survival instincts as I spit in his face.

I don't care if he hurts me for it. Whatever he might do couldn't be worse than getting sold off so some sick asshole can violate me.

"Cunt!" he snarls, wiping my spit from his eyes. His expression is livid.

Then, strong fingers wrap around my throat as he forces me to my knees. The girls whimper and scream as the chain holding us together forces Tif and the girl to my right closer. The look of fury on Zmeya's twisted face puts my stomach in knots as my courage threatens to abandon me.

"I might not get to fuck you because it would bring down your value. But if you're feeling brave, we can put your mouth to better use than that," he growls.

His hand is so tight around my throat that my pulse pounds with the effort to reach my brain. Panic rises in my chest as air refuses to enter my lungs. I jerk in his grasp, struggling to break free. But with my hands behind me, I can do little to defend myself.

"That's right, you little bitch. Open wide, and I'll show you what happens when you disrespect me. You ever been throat fucked, you spoiled little tease?"

Profanity surges to the tip of my tongue, but I don't want to open my mouth because I know what will happen if I do. So, instead, I choke, my throat spasming violently, and I watch with horror as he unzips his pants.

The front door of the cottage slams open, interrupting the terrifying moment. But Zmeya's fingers don't release me.

"What the fuck?" he demands, his temper rising as he glares at the young soldier who just entered.

"There's been a disturbance up at the main house," he says, his eyes flicking toward me momentarily before shifting back to Creepy Clint Eastwood.

With an aggravated sigh, Zmeya shoves me forcefully, making the girls on either side of me stumble as the chain jerks taut.

"Fuck!" he bellows, zipping his pants back up. "Chain them back up in the bedroom. We'll finish this once I sort out what the hell is going on."

Harsh hands wrap around my upper arms and haul me back onto my feet. Then I'm dragged toward the bedroom once more, the metal jangling and the girls tripping behind me like a macabre rendition of a chain gang.

Rather than putting us all back in our individual restraints, our captors simply sit us on the floor and slap handcuffs on the girls at either end of the line. Then the door slams shut as every Zhivoder man books it back toward the main house.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Mel?" Tif asks gruffly, her glare furious for having escalated Zmeya.

Then, far more softly, from the far end of our line, Annie whispers, "Are you okay?"

That's when the tremors set in.

That was too close.

Me and my smart mouth. I never think through the consequences before reacting, but I can't help myself. I refuse to be a victim. Someone who just sits by and lets bad things happen to her. I've spent too much of my life afraid, and I can't just roll over and do nothing—even if that means I get hurt.

"I'm fine, Annie," I assure her, letting my head fall back against the corner of the mattress as I lean against the foot of the grimy bed. And letting my eyelids slide closed, I try to contain the shivers that ripple through me.

The girl to my right scoots closer, pressing her arm and thigh against mine, and I can feel the goosebumps on her flesh. It's too cold outside and not warm enough inside to be this naked. A second later, Tif does the same on my left, the girls instinctively huddling together to keep warm.

"I hate them," Tif murmurs, resting her temple on my shoulder after several minutes of silence.

That's as close as I'm going to get to a compliment from the caustic girl, but I know what she really means is she wishes she could spit in every single one of the bastards' faces.

Something creaks in the main room of the cottage, and I tense, my eyes shifting to the bedroom door as my lungs freeze. They couldn't be back already, could they?

Tif lifts her head from my shoulder, confirming she heard it too. And I glance down the line, wondering for the hundredth time if we could all somehow overwhelm our captors and break free. But that's just a pipedream.

Bracing myself, I turn my attention back toward the door to watch and wait.

And a moment later, the knob slowly twists.

On the brink of vomiting, I try not to envision what fresh hell I'll be sold into tonight.

I'd hoped the disturbance up at the house might buy me some more time, but I'm never that lucky. I don't know what god I pissed off so terribly or how, but that's the only explanation I can come up with for how cursed my life has become.

The door swings slowly open, groaning softly on its hinges, and every eye in the room turns toward it at the sound.

And my heart stops completely as a single man steps into the room.

"Gleb," I gasp, scarcely daring to believe my eyes.

He was supposed to be dead. I've spent days trying not to think about all the reasons that's left a painful knot in my throat and a hollow ache in my chest. And now he's here, in the flesh, my knight in shining armor—dressed from head to toe in black stealth gear. I could almost cry with relief.

Green eyes narrow into a catlike glare as he scans the dirty, cluttered room, his gun raised, ready to shoot at a moment's notice. Then his gaze sweeps across the girls chained, practically naked, and sitting on the floor. He straightens to his full height, unfolding from the slinking crouch that tells me none of Mikhail's men know he's here.

And though his face is a mask of calm apathy, I can see the fury blazing in his expressive eyes. They're the one part of Gleb that gives me a window into his true feelings, and after months of watching him closely, I've come to rely on them to tell me what his carefully composed demeanor won't.

"They're in here," he calls softly, his low, smooth voice like a salve to my ragged nerves.

Then his eyes find mine, and the relief in them makes my heart skip a beat.

Is that because he found me? Or does his concern extend equally to all the girls?I know how desperately he hated failing the girls Mikhail kidnapped from one of Pyotr's clubs. So, I try not to read too far into the intensity of his emotion now.

But as he strides across the room toward us, his lithe and entirely silent steps make my pulse flutter.

The girl to my right whimpers, cringing away from him because she doesn't know any better. I don't have time to put her at ease before Gleb settles into a crouch before me. And as he focuses his attention solely on me, the oxygen vanishes from my lungs.

"You're okay?" he murmurs, the slight Russian accent that laces his words, making him that much more dangerously attractive. He poses it as a question, his gaze searching my face carefully before tracing down the lines of my body.

And his examination is so different from the lewd, lustful violation of Captain Zmeya and his men. Gleb just sees everything, reading situations without effort, and right now, he's checking to make sure no one's laid a hand on me.

It doesn't feel invasive as he takes in my exposed flesh or the threadbare state of my plain bra and panties. And his eyes don't linger on my breasts. Instead, they track back up to my throat, where Zmeya choked me.

Rigid tension ripples across his shoulders, stiffening his spine, and he doesn't touch me. Though, strangely, I yearn for it. Instead, he rises gracefully from his crouch as Lev and Denka enter the room, guns drawn but already lowered.

"We're getting you girls out of here," Gleb says, his eyes sweeping across the room.

Never one to waste words, he and his men silently get to work picking the locks on the cuffs and padlocks that confine us.

"How did you find us?" I ask, questions burning on the tip of my tongue.

Gleb glances at me momentarily before focusing on his task once again. A second later, the handcuffs spring open, releasing Tif from her position on the end of our linked chain. "You have clothes?" he asks.

She nods. "I think they piled them all back here." She points to the far side of the bed.

He gives a curt nod. "Get dressed, then help the other girls."

She scrambles off the floor, obeying without question as Gleb turns to free me next.

"Mikhail struck one of Pyotr's clubs to draw me away while you girls were taken. So when we got word that he'd flow to his property Upstate, I thought he might intend to put you in one of his VIP auctions," he says evenly.

And because his eyes are focused on my wrists connected at the base of my spine, I can't read his emotions. His hands are shockingly gentle compared to the men who have handled me for the past few days, and it makes my stomach quiver.

His skin brushes against mine, raising goosebumps in its wake, and a shiver races up my spine. He seems to take that as a bad sign because he seems even more careful not to touch me from that point on.

"Were you responsible for the commotion at the main house tonight?" I ask to distract myself from the ridiculous disappointment that settles in my stomach.

"Yes."

The curt answer seems to be all I'm going to get, so I keep working my way down my list of questions.

"Were you responsible for the gunfire a few days ago? One of Mikhail's men said the Veles were all dead…" My voice trails off, and my handcuffs spring open, releasing me.

I almost groan with relief as I bring my hands before me and massage my throbbing wrists.

"That was us, yes," he says, his voice stone-cold. "Now, no more questions. Get dressed. It's going to be a cold sprint to the cars."

I do as he says, recognizing the urgency in the way he and his men work down the line of girls. Whatever they did up at the main house has probably only given us a narrow window of time.

Scrambling to sort through the pile of clothes, I pull mine on, then help the girl who was chained beside me get dressed.

"Stay low and stay quiet," Gleb instructs once we're all dressed and ready.

Only half of us have shoes, and I wonder how far I might have to go barefoot on the snow that blankets the ground. I'm not looking forward to it, but I would walk across broken glass to get away from Mikhail, Zmeya, and all the Zhivoder men.

"Keep moving, and try not to get separated. If you do, find the moon and keep it on your left. I'll find you as soon as I can." Short and sweet, Gleb's instructions never leave much room for confusion.

The girls nod, wide-eyed and nervous but more than willing to do as he says if it means freedom on the other end.

"Let's go." Gleb ushers us out into the main room, Lev and Denka following, and I catch Denka lighting a match and tossing it onto the tattered mattress before exiting.

Lev rummages quickly through the cupboards to find a bottle of vodka, which he smashes across the wood floor. Then he lights a match and drops it as Gleb urges us out the front door.

"Won't that draw their attention?" I ask as I step onto the cold, hard ground and match my pace to Gleb's.

"They have enough to think about at the house; they won't see it until the roof's on fire. And at that point, they'll have to come investigate—see if any of you girls are still alive. With any luck, they won't find our tracks until morning. By then, we'll be long gone. But I'm not letting them use that fucking rathole to imprison girls any longer."