I pulled and pulled as the man approached. Then the woman stood beside me with something in her hand. “Stop!” she ordered, and held out a small screen. My heartbeat that seemed to have been absent from my chest since I’d arrived began to beat again.

“Inessa,” I whispered. My newly beating heart now tore into shreds. My baby sister was huddled in the corner of a cell, just like mine. Her blue eyes were huge as she watched the other girls in the room. But my chest warmed with pride when I saw she wasn’t crying.

The woman pulled the screen away. “No!” I called out. She shook her head, her ugly face blazing with happiness. “Let me see her again!” I barked.

Her eyes narrowed, and her finger stroked across my forehead. “If you want to see her again, 194, you’ll have to earn it.”

My muscles tensed. “My name is Valentin,” I bit back.

The woman then said, “No, here in the Blood Pit it’s 194. You have no name, boy.” She leaned in closer, her strong perfume stinging my nose.

“Here you will call me Mistress. Do you understand, 194?”

The man beside me pushed the needle in my arm. A searing heat immediately chased through my veins, my back bowing with pain as my mind filled with a thick fog.

I didn’t remember much after that, but I fought to keep my memories. I fought to remember that I was Valentin Belrov from Russia. My sister was called Inessa, and the first chance I got I would slit the throat of the Georgian bitch I’d been forced to call Mistress.…

13

VALENTIN

A wet rag dragged across my chest. My mind filled with the man who had given me the number tattoo. Reaching out, I grabbed his wrist, using brute strength to throw him on his back. I wrapped my free hand around his throat, squeezing the thin neck.

I frowned as the sweet smell of sugar drifted up my nose, and when a high-pitched whimper hit my ears I blinked my eyes open, the picture slowly coming into view.

Below me on a black tiled floor was a dark-haired female. Her big brown eyes were huge as they looked up at me. Her small hands were wrapped around my wrist, pushing me to get off. I blinked, and blinked again, trying to push the fog from my mind. Images flashed across my eyes: her lying in the cage, her tied to the wall, wrapped in ropes, her on a bed, being tortured and hurt.

Zoya, she had said. My name is Zoya.

Jerking my hands free, my neck throbbing with pain, I pulled back. My legs were straddling her thighs. Zoya coughed and spluttered as she rubbed at the skin of her neck.

I slid back against the wall, still feeling the wetness over my chest. I ran my hand over the damp skin, only to see a bloodied towel lying beside me. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to clear the blur. When I opened them, the chamber came into view. I breathed hard, relieved that I wasn’t back in that hell—the Blood Pit.

Seeing movement from beside me, I rolled my head to the side, wincing at the pain in my neck.

Zoya. Zoya shuffling away from me.

“No,” I rasped, my voice barely a whisper. My throat feeling like razor blades as I tried to push out the word.

Zoya stilled and deliberately met my eyes. Swallowing, she asked, “Valentin?”

My heart beat fast as she spoke my name. Unable to talk, I put my hand over my chest and briefly closed my eyes to tell her yes.

Relief washed over her face and she came closer. The closer she got, the more I noticed that her long black hair was wet and her skin had been cleaned. She was still naked. As I looked down her lean body, my nostrils flared as I saw red teeth marks covering her chest and rope burns over her wrists and ankles.

I swallowed as images of me doing these things sailed through my brain. I saw myself tying her up, biting her, about to force my cock into her mouth.

Regret and shame burned like fire in my heart.

Needing to get the fuck away from what I’d done, I tried to move. As I fought to get to my feet, a hand landed on my bare chest. I froze, and when I looked up Zoya was peering down at me. She sucked in a breath and said, “It was the monster, not you. And you stopped him before you…”

I frowned, not understanding her meaning. Zoya sat back on her ankles, then pointed to the broken metal collar on the floor. My stomach flipped. I instinctively reached up to my neck, hissing when my hands landed on bare neck.

My bare neck. I hadn’t had a bare neck since I was twelve.

I turned to Zoya for answers. Anticipating my question, she explained, “You fought its control over you. You saw what you had done, were about to do, under its influence, and you forced it from your neck.” Zoya shuffled forward and ran her finger under my neck. “It made you bleed and pass out. You have been asleep, I think, for many hours.” She pointed at the wet rag. “I was cleaning you when you awoke. I think you were having a nightmare; you were restless, and tried to call out.”

I stared at her as she spoke. As she was about to withdraw her hand, I gripped her wrist and kept her finger on my chest.

A flush crept up her skin. As I watched her olive skin blush with red, I remembered my lips pressing against hers. I remembered her touch on my face. I remembered her smiling at me when I told her my name.

“Are you tired?” she asked softly.

I closed my eyes again to say yes. Zoya looked over to the bed and said, “Can you get up to sleep on the bed?”

Wanting to get on the bed with her, I forced myself to get off this floor. Planting my palms on the hard tile, I pushed off the floor, my feet staggering when I stood up.

Zoya stayed at my side. Her face was down, as though she was concentrating. Accompanied with a deep breath, she wrapped her arm around my waist, then guided me to the bed. With every step, my heart swelled at the sweet feeling of Zoya’s arms around my waist.

“Lie down,” Zoya instructed when we reached the edge of the bed.

Doing as she said, I lay down on the mattress, until I was on my back. Zoya stood at the side, rocking on her feet. I patted the mattress beside me. Zoya looked at me through long lashes. Doing as indicated, she crawled onto the bed. She curled beside me, lying on her side. Her hand was tucked under her face. She looked so beautiful. So beautiful that I pushed out my hand and ran the back of it down her cheek.

“Beautiful,” I murmured, watching the shock ripple over her face. My raw throat burned in pain, but I pressed my free hand against my throat to numb it and finished, “I have hated … all … Georgian bitch females … my whole life.” I swallowed to wet my throat, then scratched out, “But I … cannot hate … you.”