Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 74579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
We met when we were only children. Childhood sweethearts. I was older by a few years, but not enough that it made a difference.
I run a hand across my brow, trying to rid myself of the memories. Trying to eradicate the pangs that strike my heart when I remember her. I pace back and forth, inhaling the scent of leather and worn paper, but the only smell that invades my senses is the scent of roses.
Roses.
Olena.
She’s bathed in the soaps I've brought her, and yet the faint scent of roses still clings to her as if it's part of her very being. And why does the scent evoke a memory in me that makes it impossible for me to take her punishment further than I have?
My phone buzzes with a text from Demyan.
Larissa's been sorted. She will not interfere.
She sure as fuck better not. I hope he isn't blowing smoke up my ass, because I don't want to have to fight both of them. Olena is feisty as fuck, and I've come to care for Larissa like a sister. She's been kind and helpful to me during my recovery. But hell, if that woman doesn't mind her own fucking business, I'll have something to say about it.
I walk to the shelf and pull down a book. I don't even read the title, but open it, my gaze falling onto the page and reading the random excerpt.
In the confusion attending my fall, I did not immediately apprehend a somewhat startling circumstance, which yet, in a few seconds afterward, and while I still lay prostrate, arrested my attention. It was this—my chin rested upon the floor of the prison, but my lips and the upper portion of my head, although seemingly at a less elevation than the chin, touched nothing. At the same time my forehead seemed bathed in a clammy vapor, and the peculiar smell of decayed fungus arose to my nostrils. I put forward my arm, and shuddered to find that I had fallen at the very brink of a circular pit.
I tear my eyes away from the page and look at the cover. Tales of Edgar Allen Poe.
Oh, excellent. A torture scene in "The Pit and the Pendulum." This is no fucking escapist read. I grip the book, even as my memory comes alive with vivid visceral details. My body on the floor of my cell, the scent of my own blood and sweat mingling with decay and hopelessness.
Though I walk free now, no longer restricted by the bonds that held me, anger flares in my chest at the knowledge that I'm not free. I'm still bound to the memories of my torture, to the pain that grips my heart and mind at the memory of my Taya. To the woman I hold captive in the adjacent room.
Fucking Yuri. Fucking Thieves.
I don't even realize what I'm doing until the book flies out of my hand, crashing into a wall of books and falling to the floor with a thump. I'm panting, my pulse racing, when the sound of a muffled scream comes to me from Olena's room. I freeze in momentary surprise, trying to understand what's going on, when I hear the sounds of a struggle.
She isn't alone.
In seconds, I'm at the door, trying to turn the handle, but it's locked. It's fucking locked. Someone's in there with her.
Christ.
I pound on the door, shouting for whoever's inside not to touch her, though I know it's fruitless. I need to get in there. I step back and slam my whole body against the door. It doesn't budge. I step back again and assess the door quickly with the eye of a trained hunter, looking for the weakest part of the door. It swings inwardly, and the lock is on the right side. If I aim for the lowest part and kick inwardly, I'll take it down. I step back, and lunge myself at the door, kicking it down with full force. It splinters, and a second kick takes the whole door down. What I see on the other side makes me momentarily blind with rage.
Someone's got her. Dressed fully in black, complete with a mask to hide his identity, someone's above her, wrapping a rope around her neck. Her wide eyes come to mine, her face purple from lack of air.
I see fucking red. Pure, red hot rage clouds my vision and launches me at him.
Olena falls to the ground, gasping for air with her hands at her throat, while her assailant drops her and tries to flee. I run at him, but one quick look shows me the rope is still tied about her neck. The motherfucker knotted it, and her weakened hands are helpless to pull it off. I have two choices: pursue the man who broke in here or save her. If I leave her like this, she could choke to death, but then he gets away.