Ravaged Throne: A Russian Mafia Romance (Solovev Bratva #2)(3)

Brit rolls her eyes. “A few scratches. Nothing significant. If she’s going to be a part of this life, she’d better grow a thicker skin.”

“I want no part of this life,” I croak.

Belov’s mouth tips up in an amused smirk. “You don’t have a choice, darling.” He sidles closer and runs two fingers down the side of my face.

A scream lodges in my throat. I want to fight back.

But I wasn’t meant to fight back. It wouldn’t help, anyway. My life has prepared me for this. I’m made to survive. To endure and take pain lying down. To swallow my screams.

Belov’s fingers flutter from my face to my chest, and I tense. But even when he curls his hand around my sore right breast, I don’t do anything.

“If you want to fuck someone, choose me,” Brit blurts. She’d never do something as pedestrian as blushing, but her eyes do churn like she regrets having spoken up.

“Jealous, my beauty?” Spartak asks her, even as he never takes his eyes off me.

“She’s nothing,” Brit says. “You need a real woman.”

Finally, he releases me. I’d be relieved, if it weren’t for the anger narrowing his eyes.

“Your husband made a bold move in taking down two of my buildings,” he snarls. “It was reckless, considering everything I could do to you in retaliation.”

I shiver. But it has nothing to do with Belov this time. Leo doesn’t care about me. He never did. My suffering means nothing to him.

So if Spartak wants to take out his anger on me?

Well, Leo won’t lift a finger to stop him.

“He knows I need you alive, pretty princess,” he says. “But I don’t need you whole.”

Suddenly, I twist away from him and dry heave. If there was anything in my stomach, it would have come out all over his shoes.

Belov lunges backwards. “Leo Solovev is going to pay for his hubris.”

“You’re the one with hubris.” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, looking up at him from the floor. I’m in the weaker position, but I can’t hold back anymore. “You should have known that Leo makes good on his promises. If you’d given me back to him, you wouldn’t have lost half your men.”

“Men can be replaced,” Belov snaps. “And I can rebuild.”

“But how long will it take? And at what cost?”

I know I’ve gone a step too far when his eyes grow cold. He reaches under the hem of his shirt and pulls out a blade.

Brit says something, but I don’t know what. The sight of the knife has stolen all my other senses.

Is he going to kill me now?

Is he going to cut my baby out of me?

Why didn’t I just keep my mouth shut?

Snarling, Spartak grabs my hair and forces me onto my knees. He dances the knife over my jaw and down my exposed throat like he’s looking for the best place to start carving.

The blade is cold, but I fear that if I shudder, it’ll tear into my flesh. I squeeze my eyes closed.

This is not my world.

This is not my life.

He pulls the knife away from my skin, and I wait for the sting of pain. For the warm drip of blood down my neck.

Instead, I feel a rush of air against my cheek as he slashes downward. There is no pain, though, just a distant slicing sound.

When he’s done, he drops me to the floor again. I open my eyes and see the dark strands of hair littering the floor. I look up and see the same dark tresses in his hand.

I lift a hand to my head. My fingers tremble as they traverse this alien territory.

He’s cut off at least a foot of my hair. It falls just past my ears now, the edges jagged.

“Ha!” Brit cackles. “Not so pretty anymore.”

Belov turns and walks out of the room without another word, but the she-devil stays.

I crawl back until my spine hits the wall just beneath the barred window. The dingy light comes through the thick slats and lands on Brit, illuminating her as she moves towards me. She drops to her hands and knees and comes in so close that I can see the blue lines radiating out from her irises.

She’s as beautiful as she is terrifying. An angel of death, sent to torture me and me alone.

Her hand lashes out and tightens around my neck. My mouth opens, but this time I can’t scream because she’s blocking my windpipe. It’s not the first time she’s made me fear for my life since I was locked in here. But judging by the look in her eyes, it might be the last.

Then something weird happens.

Her other hand finds mine. Our entwined fingers are squeezed against her chest, and I feel something cold and metal settle into my closed fist.

“The walls have eyes. At eleven o’clock tonight, they’ll close,” she says in a soft, accentless voice I don’t recognize. “When you see a light at the window, use this key to get out.”

What?

Her fingers curl around my hand, pressing the key inside my palm so hard I think it will fuse with my skin. Then she backs away and gets to her feet.

“It’s going to be fun breaking you into little pieces,” she sneers, her voice once again sharp and acidic.

Then she turns and leaves.

I stare after her, gasping. But I don’t dare look at the new weight resting in my left palm. I’m too scared to.

The walls have eyes. At eleven o’clock tonight, they’ll close.