I don’t want to know what the hard way is, but I also don’t want to be locked in that cell. My primal brain takes over for a moment too long as I wrestle in his grip, and he lets out a sigh that almost sounds irritated, as if he doesn’t want to have to do what he does next.
It’s less painful than I expected. He lifts me bodily off of the floor by my arms, whichdoscream out in protest as his large hands close around them. The man doesn’t put me down until we’re in the cell, at which point he tosses me face down onto the hard, flat cot that serves as a bed.
“Be still,” he growls, one knee on the thin mattress as he leans over me.
Everything inside of me reacts at once, certain that I’m about to be violated in this cold, damp, dreary cell. I buck against him, twisting and trying to bite, to kick, anything to get him off of me.
“Blyad!”He curses aloud, grabbing the back of my neck and forcing my face down into what can only technically be called a pillow. “I’m cutting these cuffs off,devochka.So be still, or else I might open a vein.”
I goverystill at that, although I’m not entirely sure why. Bleeding out in this cell doesn’t seem particularly better or worse than a bullet, but all I can think is that this isn’t how I want to die. So I freeze, not moving a muscle as the man cuts through the zip ties holding my wrists together. I once again experience the awful sensation of gaining circulation back after hours of it being gone.
“There.” He grunts, stepping away from me. The cell door is still cracked open, but I don’t even bother giving it a good look. There’s no escaping, and I don’t think I could get up anyway. My arms feel like lead weights, prickling and burning with a tingling pain that makes tears come to my eyes.
“Someone will bring you food.” He points to what could passably be called a toilet and a sink. “You can tend to the necessities there.”
“There’s no–” I look up at him, feeling more horrified than ever. “There’s no walls, or doors, or even acurtain.”
He shrugs. “Ask the guards to turn their backs. Maybe they will. Or maybe they won’t.”
The man starts to leave, turning his back on me, clearly done with the conversation. “Wait!” I blurt out, and he stops, glancing back at me with surprise, as if he hadn’t expected me to want to talk to him further.
“What?”
“When will I see my–” I swallow hard. “When will Obelensky want to see me?” I’m struck with a morbid need toknow, to have a clear accounting of how much time I have left.
I can’t even have that. The man shrugs. “Who knows? He’s a busy man. When he gets to you.”
He slams the door shut, and I feel something sink inside of me, a final flicker of hope dying out.
10
MAX
“Max? Are you awake?”
I hear Giana’s voice coming through the door, along with a soft knocking, pulling me out of the edges of sleep.
“Barely,” I manage, opening my eyes. It’s mid-afternoon, but the past days have been nothing but a loop of eating, sleeping, getting up to painfully make my way to the bathroom, sleeping, and eating again–and the cycle continues. The biggest change in the last day or so was that I finally managed to stand up through a shower instead of sponge-bathing at the sink like an eighty-year-old man. The sight of the ugly wound on my abdomen had almost made me regret it.
They’d gotten a doctor for me, but not in time to leave the job of stitching it to him. Giana had told me that once the doctor had looked at me, he’d determined that it would do more harm than good to undo and redo the quick job Tommas had done to get the bullet out and sew me up before I could lose what remained of my blood. As a result, I’ll be left with an ugly scar.
It’s not what it looks like that bothers me, but the constant reminder that it represents of my failures and losses–the loss of Sasha, most of all.
The door opens, and Giana pokes her head in. I expect more soup or oatmeal, the foods she seems most inclined to give me on my sickbed, but her hands are thankfully empty.
I’m more than grateful for how she’s taken care of me, but if I never see another bowl of soup in my life, it will be too soon.
“You have a guest.” Giana purses her lips. “Should I show him in?”
“Him?” I narrow my eyes. “I’ll just get up, and–”
“Oh no, you won’t.” Giana shakes her head firmly at me. “I’ll be right back.”
Every time I’ve tried to get up and walk around in the past days, or move more than strictly necessary at all, I’ve caught a lecture worthy of any Italian grandmother. I’ve heard snippets of her and Tommas arguing about it, with him saying that she’s not going to be able to keep me abed as long as I should be, and Giana telling him curtly that going after Sasha won’t do her any good if I keel over dead from blood loss.
Both are true. I’m hoping that I can avoid the latter.
The door shuts behind her, and I struggle to a sitting position, tugging the loose t-shirt I’m wearing over the bandages wrapped around my abdomen. The pain has eased somewhat–sitting up no longer takes my breath away. Standing is doable if I take it slow. However, I still feel the tugging, burning pain as I manage to get myself upright just in time for the bedroom door to open, and for one of the last people I would have expected to see to step inside.