Page 13 of Ruthless Sin
I close my eyes, letting the bitter steam hit my face.
Sestra moya, ya zhiva. Ya zhdu. My sister, I am alive. I am waiting.
Something in my chest goes quiet. I drink.
The taste is a brutal replica of the before. Russian-strong. Harsh. Alive.
I drain the mug until the dregs coat the bottom, then I eat half of the bread, chewing slowly to make the calories last.
The remaining half of the loaf goes directly into the coarse woolen sock hidden beneath the bedframe before I’ve decided to.
My hand freezes mid-air under the mattress.
Stop. There will be another tray tomorrow. You are not in Bucharest.
I don’t pull the bread back out. The crust stays jammed into the toe of the sock.
My body won’t believe the house yet. Not yet. Weeks in this compound, weeks of fresh trays sliding through the gap, and my hands still hoard food like the kitchen is going to vanish by nightfall.
Chert voz’mi. Damn it.
My own skin is a traitor.
This is what they made you. A body that steals bread and hides in corners. You don’t get more than this.
Later, when the deep bass notes of the household begin to rumble through the floorboards, I turn the lock, crack my door an inch, and stand just inside the dark shadow of the frame.
Cassia comes down the wide corridor first, her bare feet silent against the runner.
She walks slowly, one palm pressed flat against the small of her back, the linen of her dress shifting over her stomach in a way it didn’t when I first arrived. She isn’t showing yet, not enough for a man to notice, but women in the black-site basements became pregnant overnight, and the shape of their bodies always told the truth before their mouths did.
Cassia’s body is telling the story now.
Dante is a half-step behind her shadow.
His massive hand rests at the small of her spine without him needing to look down, his stride slowing to match hers, never interrupting her pace.
Husband, my head notes.Muzh.
The Russian term sticks to him, domestic and solid. I don’t know what to do with a powerful man who uses his hands to steady a woman instead of breaking her.
They pass my doorway without pausing, their eyes fixed ahead.
Cassia speaks, her voice clear and distinct, deliberately not lowering the volume for privacy. “He didn’t sleep.”
Dante’s response is a low baritone. “He never does. Not before.”
“Talk to him?”
“I will.”
Their footsteps fade down the eastern hall, and the silence returns until a floorboard shifts by the stairs.
Instead of walking past, Renzo stops just out of my direct line of sight. He is guiding the woman with the faded purple hair up from the kitchen.
She’s wearing one of his button-downs, the hem swallowing her shorts, her hair growing out in untamed streaks because she’s clearly had more dangerous things to handle than dye. His hand is wrapped around the back of her neck, his thumb tracing her jawline, and her fingers are locked around his wrist.
He mutters something too low for me to catch, and she lets out a sudden, sharp laugh against his palm.
