Grievous (Scarlet Scars #2)(70)

She clutches a brown paper bag as she approaches.

My stomach clenches at the sight.

“Are you hungry?” she asks, holding the bag out. “I brought you something to eat.”

I just stare at her.

My head is pounding.

Frowning, she opens the bag, reaching inside of it, pulling out the contents: a piroshki wrapped in plastic, a small container of pickled cabbage, and a bottle of water. It isn’t hard to tell who packed this lunch, and it wasn’t the young American girl in front of me.

I pick up the bottle of water, cracking the lid and slowly sipping it.

I expect her to leave, but Alexis just stands there, fidgeting nervously as she glances behind her. After a moment, she sits down on the edge of the mattress. “Are you holding up okay down here?”

I look away from her, sipping more water. “I’m alive.”

“I’m glad,” she says. “And don’t worry, it’s going to be okay.”

She sounds like she believes that, but what does she know? Nothing. She lives her life at Kassian’s mercy just like the rest of us.

“What day is it?” I ask, taking one more sip of water before screwing the cap back on.

“It’s Thursday morning,” she says. “You’ve been here almost a week now.”

Before either of us can say anything else, there’s noise on the stairs, more footsteps approaching. Alexis jumps to her feet, averting her eyes from mine as she heads out of the basement. I watch her dart up the stairs, my gaze stalling when it reaches him coming down.

Kassian.

I eye him warily as he approaches, his steps leisure, like he’s got not a care in the world. His hands are shoved in the pockets of his black slacks, his suit fresh and crisp, his shoes shining under the bright basement light. He looks completely put together… all except for the scratches on his face. Gashes mar his jawline, his cheek, before running down his neck. They still look enflamed, swollen, the skin glowing pink.

I look down at my hands, seeing the blood and filth caked under my nails.

Guess that was me.

“Good morning, pretty girl,” he says, grabbing the metal chair and dragging it over beside the mattress, sitting down in it. He glances around, picking up the piroshki from where it lays on the mattress. “You do not want the food I made for you?”

“I’d rather have peanut butter and jelly.”

He ignores that, unwrapping the piroshki and tearing it in half—a yeast roll stuffed with something, I don’t know, but it smells so good that my stomach again clenches. “Cheese and potato, just as I remember you like it… no onion. Never onion.”

He holds half out to me and I take it but don’t eat it, despite the fact that my body is begging for calories. He can remember that I hate onions, but he can never seem to remember that I hate him.

“What did you do?” I ask, my voice trembling around those words. “Tell me you haven’t hurt her… tell me she’s okay, that you wouldn’t really…”

I can’t even bring myself to say it.

He takes a bite of the half of the piroshki he kept, chewing slowly as he regards me, before he motions toward where I’m sitting. “Are you enjoying your mattress?”

“I told you I didn’t want it. I never asked for it.”

“Oh, but you did,” he says, continuing to eat. “Do you not remember? You begged me for it.”

“I didn’t.”

I wouldn’t.

There’s no way I would beg.

“You did,” he says again. “You said you were sorry, that you would be a good girl, that you would love me right… and you did. As soon as I had the mattress brought in, you showed me how grateful you were for my generosity.”

Tears sting my eyes. “You’re lying.”

A smile plays on his lips as he looks at me, eyes carefully scanning my face, before he says, “I can bring you the video, if you would like to watch.”

I shake my head. “I don’t believe you.”

“You do not have to,” he says, shrugging nonchalantly, “but it is true. You were so wet for me when we made love. I can still smell us in here… can you?”

Bile burns my throat, and I try to swallow it back, but it’s rushing through me too fast. Hunching over, I dry heave, gagging over the side of the mattress.

Before I realize what he’s doing, he’s crouching down in front of me, his piroshki long forgotten as he smoothes my hair, like he’s trying to console me. He grabs the chain around my neck, tugging on it as he pulls out the keys. I watch him warily as he unlocks it, unwinding the chain and letting it drop away.

“Come on,” he says, meeting my gaze. “We need to get you washed up.”

“Why?” I ask quietly. “What’s the point?”

“You do not want to be dirty for the party, do you?”

“Party? What party?”

“Your coming home party,” he says as he raises an eyebrow. “You did not think I would make the guest of honor miss her own celebration, did you?”

“But—”

Before I can finish my thought, his hand clamps down around my mouth, covering it, silencing me, as his other hand settles on the back of my head, pulling me closer. “I do not want to ruin the surprise, pretty girl, but I think you will be quite pleased with what I have planned. You remember how much fun we had at your Sweet Sixteen?”