Page 114 of The Gift
“Up,” barked a guard.
Lauren scrambled to her feet. She got up more slowly, already tracking everything. She noted their positions, their weapons, and how the brute favored his left leg.
They were marched up the narrow staircase, out of the basement, and into a long hallway that smelled faintly of cigar smoke and expensive cologne. A pair of double doors openedinto a dining room that looked staged for a magazine, with polished wood, gleaming silver, and a crystal chandelier.
Kedrov sat at the head of the table, a glass of red wine in hand. He swirled it lazily, studying the color before taking a slow sip. Only then did he look at them over the rim of the glass, like a scientist examining specimens.
“Sit,” he ordered.
She was shoved into a chair halfway down the table. Lauren moved to sit beside her, but Kedrov clicked his tongue.
“Not you. You may stand.”
Lauren froze then stood beside Erica’s chair, trembling.
A plate was set in front of her: mystery meat with congealed gravy, overcooked vegetables, and a mound of rice still molded into the shape of the scoop. It was the same slop they’d been fed downstairs, the same food Lauren had survived on for weeks. No wonder she was so thin.
Kedrov, on the other hand, cut into a perfectly seared steak. A baked potato sat beside it, split open and loaded with butter and sour cream. Green beans glistened with oil, their edges browned just right.
Behind her, Lauren’s stomach growled.
Kedrov smiled faintly. “Eat.”
Erica looked at him with unveiled contempt. “Sorry. I’m allergic to shoe leather and mush.”
For an older man, he moved with lightning speed.
His hand shot across the table, and a vicious open-handed slap cracked against her cheek before she could flinch. The force snapped her head sideways.
“I do not tolerate insolent women,” he said coldly.
Her cheek burned, but she forced herself to face forward again, steeling herself against the fresh wave of hatred rising inside.
Kedrov adjusted his tie and smoothed his jacket before he decreed, “She eats when you do.”
His cruelty had no bounds. She wanted to smack the smug look off his face, but she picked up her fork and stabbed a piece of the grayish meat, forcing herself to chew and swallow. Lauren exhaled shakily.
“Now we talk.” He dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin then picked up his wine, swirling it in his glass. “You know why you are here.”
She stared at him. “Enlighten me.”
“You have a gift,” he said simply. “You will use it for me. You will tell me about any threats to me, my businesses, my family.” He smiled faintly. “You will be my personal gypsy.”
Erica kept her voice even. “Someone misinformed you. I’m an empath, not a fortune teller. I read emotions, not minds or palms.”
“But you knew about your neighbors, the girl at the warehouse, and about the shipment last weekend.”
“I didn’t know. I felt Cheyenne Wilson’s terror. She broadcast it to me.”
“That is psychic,” he insisted.
“That is trauma,” she said quietly. “And it’s unpredictable. My gift can’t be controlled, even with all your money and muscle. It is what it is.”
Kedrov didn’t appreciate her truth or her glibness. “You cost me millions,” he snapped, face turning red.
Indifferent to his dirty money, she stared back at him. “I can’t help you.”
His voice hardened. “So, you’re not only a smart-mouthed bitch, you are also useless to me.”
