Then he moved.
It was simply a flicker of a movement, but it was enough to make me stiffen in anticipation of what he would do next. Was he just going to kill me? Was he going to take me into the mouth of the chamber and torture me? My head ached as my mind raced with the fear of what was about to transpire.
The sound of metal clanging against metal forced me to look up. I instantly regretted what I had done. It was what he wanted. He’d wanted me to break.
A callused hand was holding a black metal rod, a metal rod that was pressed against a metal bar of the cage. I froze as my eyes stayed on that metal rod as it focused on that hand. It was large and scarred, and my gaze traveled up the muscled bare arm holding the rod like it was an extension of his arm. His skin was fair in tone, the complete opposite of mine, but it was covered in a mass of dark tattoos. They were muddled writings etched in black ink. They appeared to be a swirling, disorganized list of names brandished on his skin.
I swallowed, my mouth becoming incredibly dry. I tried to make out the names, and when I did my stomach dropped again. Most were Eastern European: Russian, Ukrainian, Serbian. But what scared me most was the appearance of the Georgian.
Georgian.
My pulse pounded in my neck so fast I was sure it was protruding out of my skin. Georgian, I thought again. My mind raced with what these names meant. Were they people he had killed? Were they people he knew? Were they the people he worked for?
The rod suddenly moved. My eyes couldn’t help but follow the tip of the rod to the top of the metal bar, and when I did it brought with it the view of my captor’s chest. My nostrils flared as I studied his bare broad chest. A large tattoo reading “194” was the centerpiece, and the swirl of names continued over his thick muscled chest and torso. But that’s not what had me losing control of composure, panic and anxiety setting in. No, that belonged to a black metal collar sitting tightly around my captor’s neck. A wide neck with muscles stacking high on his bare shoulders.
My heart thundered when I wondered what the collar was for. Who had put it on him? What did it do?
The captor jerked the rod to the top of the cage, but I kept my eyes from meeting his. I did not want to look into his eyes; I did not want to see his face. In my head that made this all too real. But then a buzzing sound came from the tip of the rod, an electric sound traveling through the metal cage. A shock sparked against the part of my back that was leaning against the bar. I jumped forward, crying out in pain. The electric shock had burned my skin.
And then I did look up. My gaze slammed to meet his and all the blood drained from my face.
Dilated eyes stared at me from a sternly featured face—a heavily scarred face, deep scars like road maps over his cheeks and forehead. His pupils were so large and black, I could barely make out the color of his irises, the appearance of the blown pupils only adding to his menacing visage. The scars continued off his face and ran up over his shaven head.
My God, I thought; he looked like a monster. I continued to study his face, unable to look away. Under the scars, high cheekbones covered in dark stubble framed his face along with his strong jaw and broad forehead. His lips were full, his bottom lip slightly fuller than the top. Jet-black eyebrows arched perfectly over his predatory eyes. His right cheek was marked with a prominent long scar that started at his temple and ran down his cheek, cutting through the dark stubble, cutting under the metal collar, and traveling low to his defined right pectoral muscle.
As I looked up, I swallowed, my hands trembling even more as his eyes remained fixed on mine. Those penetrating dilated eyes the only unscarred or undamaged part of his entire face. The only human part of him.
Sucking in a shuddering inhale, I waited for him to speak. With a slam of the metal rod against the metal bars, a jolt of electricity sang as it traveled through the metal bars. I scurried farther into the center of the small cage, only bringing me closer to my captor’s dominating presence. From what I’d seen from Zaal’s picture, this man could surely rival him in height and width.
My eyes were wide, my arms holding my coat tightly around my waist, when my captor struck the bars one again and aggressively commanded, “Davdget’!”
I flinched at the guttural, harsh sound of his voice. Then ice ran through my veins. It had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. The man had spoken to me in Georgian. He commanded me to stand. Though it was clear from his accent that he was Russian.
He knew I was Georgian.
My eyes closed while I debated the probability that he knew who I was. But I steeled my nerves and resolved to deny my true name.
I was Elene Melua, a poor farm girl from Kazreti, Georgia. And I knew nothing of the Kostava Clan. I knew nothing of Zaal.
The rod striking the bars with an incredible force caused me to jump in shock. My captor screamed, “I said stand!” in his heavily accented Georgian.
Fear alone had me lurching to my feet, the ceiling of the cage now only a few feet above my head. I suddenly felt closed in and claustrophobic. I was terrified. As weak as I know that makes me sound, when my family had been known for their strength, I was terrified of this man.
This monster.
My captor stepped closer to the cage, the metal prod slipping through the gap in between the bars until it stopped just inches from my chest. I remained absolutely still. I could hear the electricity building at the end of the metal rod. I prayed he wouldn’t push it against my chest.
My eyes remained downcast, until he ordered, “Look up!”
I flinched at the venom in his voice, his harsh and scathing voice. But too afraid to disobey, I snapped my eyes to meet his. The moment our gazes clashed, I felt seared on the spot. There was nothing but contempt and hatred in his piercing stare. His nostrils flared as he watched me, and his scarred top lip curled as if in disgust.
He rolled his neck, a gesture that looked impossible under the tightness of the metal collar and with the thickness of his muscles. Then he closed in, his heavily built chest pushing against the bars. As his skin connected with the metal, I could see the electrical current hit his scarred tattooed skin, volts of electricity shooting through his bones. But this man didn’t even flinch. His arm holding the electric rod didn’t even move. His eyes not once flickered away from mine.
If I had felt fear before, it was nothing to the pure terror I felt under this man’s hateful, penetrating stare. This man felt no pain. This man who clearly wanted to hurt me.
As my desperate situation began to hit home, he raised his chin and coldly ordered, “Strip.”
My face blanched. I didn’t move, paralyzed by fright. But he shook his head and snarled, “Strip!” He paused and leaned his head forward to hiss menacingly, “Suka.”
Bitch. He’d called me a bitch in Russian.
He pressed something on the top of the black metal rod that caused sparks to hiss from the tip. Forced into action, my trembling hands lifted to my coat. It took longer than I meant to push my heavy coat from my body. My arms were numb with cold and distress.
All the time the scarred man watched me, the terrifying buzzing from the rod mere inches away. Tears built in my eyes as my fingers next fumbled with the buttons on my blouse. The minutes that I undressed felt like hours, my clothes dropping to the floor. The slap of the harsh cold air almost brought me to my knees. But I willed myself to be strong. My tears didn’t escape even though they built like a wave. I would not fall to the floor in fear, even though my legs warred with my quest to remain standing tall.
As my pants fell to the floor, my underwear the only remaining garments, I pictured Zaal and Anri in my mind. I pictured Zaal’s suffering for years under the torture of Jakhua. And I pictured Zaal in the photograph, smiling and in love.
Zaal had survived.
I was Kostava. I had the strong soul of our family line.
I could survive this, too.
Inhaling deep, I gritted my teeth at the humiliation of being naked in front of a man. I had never been with a man. I had never been naked and exposed, and now this man was forcing me to bare all to him.
My hands shook profusely as I fought to free the clasp of my bra. I winced as the lace bra fell free, cold air biting at the flesh of my breasts.
I fought back the need to cover myself; instead I forced my hands to lower to my panties. I pushed them down my ice-burned red legs. When I was free of my clothes, I straightened, keeping my eyes downcast.