Nikolai: The Complete Collection

22. Justine

22

JUSTINE

W hen the creak of a door sounds through my ears, I stop scrubbing my wrists along a switched-off wall heater.

Scarcely breathing, I roll onto my back, praying the person approaching me won’t discover the rips my hour of hard work has caused to the duct tape circling my wrists.

I don’t know how long I’ve been held hostage in a space that smells like the locker rooms at my high school. It’s long enough that my stomach grumble has switched from a faint purr to a growl, but not long enough for the ghastly Vegas daytime temps to become comfortable nighttime lows.

If I had to guess, I’d say I’ve been held against my will for three, possibly four hours.

I don’t recall the trip from the airport to my current location. Whoever struck me hit me so hard I’ve spent the last several hours catching flies.

Although I’m panicked at the length of time I was unconscious, my dozing lessened the severity of the knock to my skull, mercifully leaving me relatively uninjured.

Well, as uninjured as I can be while bound and gagged to a bed.

After leveling my breathing, I prick my ears to count the steps of the person approaching me. With my vision blurry from a silk material draped over my eyes, my unimpeded senses must pick up the slack for their weakened counterparts.

One, two, three, four, five.

With my guest’s strides long enough to reach me with only five steps, I’m guessing he’s male. Although my vision remains hazy, enough light is shining through the thin material to indicate the size of my room. It’s larger than a master suite but not quite the size of a loft apartment.

“Up. Now,” grunts a heavily accented male voice.

Not waiting for me to respond, he hooks my ankle and drags me across the stinky mattress. Because his pull is so rough, the scarf covering my eyes falls from my face, exposing the only boarded-up window in the room.

With the sky a murky blue, my initial assumption about the length of my captivity appears to be corroborated. Roman and I boarded the plane at 10 a.m., but there’s no doubt the sky is currently ruled by a late afternoon sun.

When my bare feet land on the ground with a bang, I sway like a leaf on a hot summer’s day. My weak state can be traced to the combination of a hard knock to the head and excessive hunger. I went straight from my argument with Mr. Fletcher to a night of lovemaking with Nikolai, so I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning. I am beyond starving.

Not speaking, a man with dark hair and a full beard directs me across the room. His swagger is as jagged as the vicious snarl on his face, and his strides are so long that I have to jog to keep up with him.

Thankfully, my feet are bare, so the sky-high stilettos I smashed into Malvina’s groin aren’t hindering my effort to stay glued to his side.

“All this effort for a whore,” the stranger mutters under his breath, annoyance echoing in his tone.

I don’t bother informing him I’m not a whore. It would be a waste of air. As far as any member of the Popov crew is concerned, women are either whores or housemaids, and no amount of arguing will alter a lifetime of misconceptions.

Even with the man’s voice too low for me to pick up his accent, I know he’s one of Vladimir’s goons. I only glanced into my attacker’s eyes for a second before I was struck from behind, but it was long enough to see his blackened soul.

I have no doubt I’m being held hostage by Vladimir. I can feel it in my bones and sense it with every fiber of my being. My skin has also never crawled so much in my life.

After tugging the gag out of my mouth, the stranger throws open the warped door we’re standing next to. “Get in there and clean up. He’s asking top dollar for you, so his buyers will want their money’s worth.”

I stare at him, my scrambled brain struggling to absorb his confession. “Buyers?”

He smirks, amused by my lack of knowledge, but not a word spills from his hard-lined mouth.

“Move it. We haven’t got all day,” he demands a short time later, peeved by my delay.

With a grunt, he shoves me in the direction he nudged. I stumble haphazardly into the damp-smelling space, stomping on his boot-covered foot.

After I regain my balance, I stray my wide gaze around the scarcely lit room. A cracked toilet, a soot-covered vanity, and a shredded shower curtain add to the horrifying image of numerous blood splatters coating mildew-covered walls. This bathroom looks like a set in the world’s most horrific horror flick. It is stomach-churning and nightmare-inducing at the same time.

“You’re not expecting me to get clean in here, are you?” I ask, the clanking of my knees heard in my tone.

I’d have more chance of getting clean in a bucket of dirty dishwater than in this dingy, bloodstained room.

My eyes rocket to the unnamed brute when he snarls, “You either clean up in there, or I give you a sponge bath. The choice is yours.” There isn’t an ounce of humor in his voice… or yearning . He speaks as if seeing me naked is as ordinary as cheese on a pizza.

Swallowing down the bile creeping up my esophagus, I whimper, “Can you at least untie my hands?”

He takes a moment to contemplate my suggestion before jerking his chin up, wordlessly requesting me to spin around.

In different circumstances, my chest would puff high at his pause for deliberation, but since I’m being held against my will, I’ll save my cockiness for a more appropriate time.

My heart freezes when the coolness of a switchblade slides between my wrists. With a grunt, he drags the knife along the seam of the tape, proving I was hours away from freeing myself.

“Thank you,” I murmur when my hands fall to my sides.

While rotating my wrists to encourage blood flow back to my hands, I merge deeper into the gore-scented space.

The fear clutching my throat increases with every hesitant step I take. I don’t know if a murder occurred in this room or if it is merely the clean-up location for vile, heinous men, but the scent of death is undeniable. No amount of bleach can rid the smell of desecration. The only cure for the stench lingering in my nostrils is a flamethrower and half a gallon of gasoline.

When I spot the cracked toilet, my bladder niggles, silently pleading to be relieved of the liquid it’s been holding for hours. After knocking down the lid with my elbow, I drop my hands to the waistband of my skirt. I stop lowering its concealed zipper when awareness of being watched overwhelms me.

Lifting my gaze to the door, I spot the stranger watching me. Amusement sparks his eyes, and his lips are tugged high in the corners.

“Do you mind?” I nudge my head to the door hanging by a thread, requesting him to close it.

Angling his head to the side, he arches his brow in a condescending, jeering way. I spread my hands across my waist and cock my hip, determined to maintain my dignity. The room is windowless, and his massive frame blocks my only viable exit. How far does he think I can get?

Seemingly relishing my fighting stance, a blistering smile stretches across his face. “You don’t have a fucking clue about the shitstorm set to rain on you, do you?”

Unsure if he’s asking a question or stating a fact, I hesitantly shake my head.

The stranger’s smile grows while he runs his hand over his clipped hair. “You don’t need to be worried about me watching you use the washroom, because you’re minutes away from being broadcast to the world as naked as the day you were born.”

“What?” I stammer out through sawing lungs.

My hands shoot up to cover the scars on my shoulders with my hair as my brain struggles to compile the facts.

Surely I heard him wrong.

He couldn’t have said what I thought he said.

I must be mistaken.

Not trusting the dangerous spark detonating in the stranger’s murky eyes, I fist my shirt close to my body when he heads my way. He walks slowly on purpose, stalking me like a tiger on the hunt.

“I don’t usually pay for whores. Why pay for something I can get for free? But your feistiness is inspiring me to branch out. The fighters are always more fun to play with.” He growls his last sentence with a throaty groan.

My worry triples when he weaves his fingers in my hair and yanks my head back. Although part of my response is due to discovering a blinking red light in the corner of the room, most of it is from the heat of his body curled over mine.

Even being in a room that represents death to a T, his cock is primed and bracing against the zipper of his pants, and his breath is heavy on my ear.

“If he didn’t threaten to slit my throat if I sampled the merchandise before paying for the privilege, I’d give you a play-by-play rundown on what your adventurous night will entail,” he hisses into my ear, his voice as dangerous as my heart rate. “But since I value my life more than any whore, I’ll let you get washed up.” He fists my hair more firmly, forcing tears to prick my eyes. “But don’t test my patience, Justine. I’m not a patient man. Do you understand?”

I nod the best I can from his hold on my hair.

“Good. Now let’s get this shit wrapped up. The quicker we get this over with, the faster the party will start.” A shiver rolls down my spine when he presses his lips to the shell of my ear. “I just hope whoever buys you likes to share. It’s been a while since I’ve had a redhead screaming my name.”

Satisfied I’ve absorbed his threat with the malice he intended, he shoves me away from him. His jolt is so forceful I crash into the vanity with a thud, sending pain rocketing through my hip.

The sparkle in the stranger’s eyes brightens when pain touches my face. “I don’t know what the men will pay for more… your feistiness or your screams. I might make you perform both.”

Clutching the frail vanity in a white-knuckled hold, I keep my chin close to my chest. Although my fighting instincts have kicked into overdrive, with my body weak from malnutrition and my heart on the verge of coronary failure, I shut down the desire to respond to his taunt. I don’t know why, but my intuition is warning me Mr. Dark and Dangerous isn’t my biggest battle tonight.

Once the tattooed man returns to his post at the bathroom door, I lift my eyes to the grime-covered mirror. With my pupils filling my corneas, my eyes are barely recognizable. They are as dark and lifeless as Vladimir’s were when I crashed into him earlier today.

A smear of dirt is covering my right cheek, and blood streaks smeared through my hair have added more vibrancy to its bright-red coloring. Considering I’m being held captive in an unknown location by numerous gun-wielding men and the deranged ex-fiancée of the man I’m falling in love with, I look remarkably put together. Sane, even.

After splashing my face with water, I use a stack of napkins resting on the vanity to clear away the mascara smeared under my eyes. The material’s roughness boosts the natural rosy hue on my cheeks, giving me a sexed-up look typically produced by hours of strenuous activities.

Hating that my outside appearance doesn’t reflect how I feel on the inside, I switch off the water faucet and spin around to face the unnamed man.

“Bathroom?” he asks, nudging his head to the toilet I attempted to use earlier.

I shake my head, my determination to preserve my dignity strong enough to ignore the niggle in my bladder.

The man’s brow is lost in his hairline. “Are you sure? If I’m made to return to this room for the second time, our next exchange won’t be as pleasant as our first.”

I glare at him in shock. If he thinks our exchange was full of niceties, I feel sorry for any woman he has ever dated. Dragging a woman around by her elbow before tearing her hair from her scalp is not my idea of a fun time.

“I’m sure,” I reply, my throat as dry as his apparent humor.

“All right, then, let’s go.” He jerks up his chin, suggesting I exit before him. “Ladies before gentlemen.”

I save my eye roll until I’m out of his line of sight. Either the water I splashed on my face was from the fountain of youth, or the person I heard screeching in his ear via a radio transmitter changed his mindset quickly. If I had to pick, I’d rather have the arrogant, pigheaded man he was earlier.

You can’t prepare for an attacker you don’t see coming.

“This way,” the unnamed man demands when I head for the bed I’ve been bound to for several hours. “The beds are reserved for one thing and one thing only…”

He aligns his eyes with mine as his lips tug into a smirk, the remainder of his sentence revealed without words. Under different circumstances, I’d not hesitate to say he is a handsome man, but as he stands before me now, smirking with so much arrogance my teeth ache, he is as ugly as the back end of a dog.

Keeping my prying eyes on the down-low with a narrowed chin, I count the number of rooms we pass as we trek down a long, dark hallway. At least half a dozen rooms filter off the corridor we are walking down, and another two dozen break off the main one.

Considering every door we pass is sealed with large, industrial padlocks, it isn’t hard to determine the extreme security measure isn’t to keep people out of the rooms. They are to keep the women I hear whimpering locked in.

“Who are these women?” I murmur to myself, my voice breaking into a sob.

I loved being multilingual until now. Every heartbreaking plea for help, whether mumbled in Russian, French, or Czech, breaks my heart more and more.

“ To je v po?ádku. P?ichází pomoc ,” I promise to the bright-blue eye peering at me through the keyhole of a door we have stopped across from.

Although she has no reason to believe my guarantee that help is coming, the woman responds, “Thank you,” in Czech.

“Get back in bed,” the unnamed man demands, banging his fist against the lock. “You’ve got another three visits before your night is over.”

His fists hit the door so forcefully that she scampers away in fright, but it doesn’t stop her from warning, “?ábel. Pozor na ?ábla.”

My heart smashes against my ribs as her words repeat in my ears.

Devil. Beware of the devil.

If her warning doesn’t foreshadow who’s waiting for me behind the engraved door I’m standing in front of, the creeping of my skin is a surefire indication.

I’m about to meet the spawn of all evil for the second time in my life.

My lungs saw in and out when the door slowly glides open, revealing a room fit for a king. As I’m guided into the spice-scented space, my eyes go wild, absorbing all the unique features of the extravagant room.

A four-poster bed covered with satin sheets and leather shackles sits in the middle of the vast area. Wooden trunks line the walls with recently replaced wallpaper, and a crystal chandelier hangs awkwardly out of place in the far right-hand corner.

If it weren’t for the scent of cigars lingering in the air, the opulence of the room would be overwhelming. Its wealth is in such abundance it is gag-worthy.

My neck cranks to the side when a deep Russian voice greets me. “The Huntress herself. Welcome to my abode.”

Vladimir emerges from the shadows, his creeping steps as slick as his gelled-back hair. He rakes his eyes down my body, his stare as desolate as the one he gave me when he considered Nikolai’s offer of making me his whore.

“I get it. I do.” Although his eyes haven’t left mine, his words aren’t for me. They’re for the man standing behind me. “It’s not solely her face that hardens men’s cocks. It is the fire in her eyes.”

When Vladimir heads in my direction, I step back, the danger in his eyes destroying my confidence in less than a nanosecond.

Smirking, he inhales deeply, as if he’s drinking in my fear. When a flare fires through his eyes, I realize that is precisely what he’s doing.

He wants me scared and at his complete mercy.

He wants to break me.

It is a pity he failed to realize I broke years ago, so there is nothing left of me to break.

Standing tall, I roll my shoulders and lock my eyes with Vladimir’s lifeless black gaze. His arrogance doesn’t yield in the slightest. If anything, it grows, feeding off my determination.

“That’s it, Ангел . Just like that,” he commends me, his voice the kind I never want to hear from a man his age. It is throaty and full of need, the type that should only be used behind closed doors.

“Stay back,” I warn, my voice surprisingly strong for how hard my heart is hammering.

Clenching my fists, I brace them in front of my body, silently warning him I’m not going down without a fight this time around. I may only get in one hit before I’m taken out, but I’ll make sure it’s a good one.

The crazy thud of my heart is deafening but not loud enough to miss a male voice on my right shout, “Ten thousand dollars!”

My head slings to the voice so fast that my neck squeals in protest. The air is sucked from my lungs when I discover the sound didn’t come from a man. It came from a bank of computer monitors filled with the faces of men of all ages and ethnicities.

With their gazes locked on Vladimir and me, it doesn’t take a genius to realize they are watching our charade with eagle eyes.

My stomach gurgles when a second heavily accented voice roars, “Seventeen thousand dollars.” His accent is so unique I’m confident it is either Scandinavian or Norwegian.

Not to be outdone, a distinctively Asian voice counterbids, “Thirty thousand.”

Vladimir smirks, seemingly pleased. “They haven’t even seen you naked, yet they’ve come out of the gate firing.” He keeps his voice low, ensuring the men gawking at me through video surveillance can’t hear him. “Let’s see if we can entice them some more.”

Before I can comprehend what is happening, he grips my blouse and thrusts it open. Tiny pearl buttons fly in all directions as my hands dart up to cover my erratically panting chest.

Reading the turmoil of my expression, Vladimir mocks, “Don’t worry, Ангел , not every man bidding on you will be turned off by your scars. Some may add to them.” I gasp in a mangled breath when the blade of a knife digs into my back. “Now be a good girl and smile at the camera before I’m forced to increase their bids with your blood instead of your smile,” he commands in my ear, his hot breath adding to the sweat beading on my nape.

Ignoring the pain of the knife piercing my skin, I muster a fake smile. The sudden incline of my cheeks squeezes the first tears from my overfilled eyes.

My pained response incites the men more.

Their bids turn frantic, coming in by the droves.

“Thirty-five thousand,” shouts a man from a computer speaker on my right at the same time another man bids, “Forty thousand,” from a screen on my left.

And so the bids continue until I’m sold to the highest one.