Chapter 4 His words

And that's when the sound of footfall sounds in the far distance, while I can do nothing but stand there, barefoot, while the lone standing camera watches me.

But instead of showing whoever the fuck is hiding behind the screen that they've won, I smile up at it and send whoever the fuck I know is watching me a big fuck you with both my hands.

In retaliation, the asshole behind the camera strikes in the form of a pinch to my arm. Only it proves to be far worse than I'd imagined when I look down to see the tip of a vile lodged into my skin. The same type of vile you'd use to take down a large animal.

Horse tranquilizer.

There was arguably no sentiment I shared with my Italian side of the family, but that changes when I realize we've suddenly got one thing in common, our hatred for Russians.

. . .

I was thirteen when my papà started drugging me, but twelve when my jido did it.

As wrong as that may sound, it'd been out of love, entirely for my own benefit.

My jido had an odd way of showing his love, and my papá was far too paranoid for his own good. I was born with a target on my back and two powerful men who had no one else to love but me.

Not only did I need to be faster, smarter, and better than anyone who'd want to bring me harm, but I needed to remain underestimated. And speeding up my body's reaction time to sedatives was part of said process.

It was always controlled and relatively safe. My grandfather studied chemistry in university, and seeing as I didn't develop any permanent health issues, it was good enough proof that their methods -although unorthodox - worked.

I'd been hit with a variety of sedative tranquilizers, and while the headaches, confusion, muscle numbness, and nausea sucked, it made my reaction time three times faster than that of a regular human.

It also proved to work in my favour more often than not, especially when the dumbasses around me hadn't done their homework.

My sense of consciousness returns to me just as quickly as I begin to assess my surroundings. A set of hands is at my back, handling my wrists as they bind them, but two voices are speaking.

I don't bother trying to make out what they're saying and instead, focus on working up the strength to move my numb muscles.

Despite my frozen limbs, my body's ability to sense touch isn't gone, which proves to be even more satisfying when I realize just how much of a shitty knot this dumbass is tying my hands in.

I have to fight back a smile.

"mogu ya razbudit' yeye?" This voice is that of a woman's, and all thoughts of smiling vanish in the next moment as the harsh sting of a palm against my cheek forces my head to the side and my eyes to snap open. (Russian| can I wake her up?)

Anger slowly clogs every pore in my body, while I can do nothing but slowly turn my head to the blonde bitch staring down at me, a smug look in her eyes. "You'll pay for that." I seethe.

Like an overweight horse, she makes a mhmp noise and tilts her head in amusement to the person next to her. I follow her gaze to see the inept Shrek, who's looking at her in a mix of awe and amusement.

Gross.

Had it not been for the way my fingers began to twitch, I'd gag at their antics. But my mood is uplifted by the events of my muscles waking up.

I smile weakly at the girl. "I wonder how well that smile will hold up after I've used your long, dried-up hair as a noose around your neck and watched you die a painful death." The thought strengthens my smile while it wipes hers.

With a glare, she lifts her hand and makes a move to slap me, but doesn't follow through with it, clear that she's trying to get me to flinch.

But I don't fucking flinch.

That makes her even angrier. She steps forward, her accent thick as she speaks in English. "I will kill you, you traitor."

"Traitor?" Despite my instinct to raise a brow, I stay still, not wanting them to know I've gained control of my body yet. "When have I ever proven to be loyal to your unpleasant ass?" And then I trail my eyes to the big-nosed man next to her."How's your puny dick doing, by the way?"

My lips twitch when I sense the girl's eyes blaze at the mention of his dick. Her jealousy satisfies me.

"ona togo ne stoit." Another voice chimes as a series of footfalls follows, dragging my attention to the numerous bodies that trail into the room. (She's not worth it)

Twelve bodies to be exact, all decked in matching black uniforms, weapons tucked into their waistbands.

So particular.

Nine of them men, three of them women. But my gaze zeros in on the twins, one of whom has a bandage wrapped around his head while he glares daggers at me.

I twist my hands behind my back and loosen the shitty excuse of a knot. My Sitto could tie a better knot than this, and her fingers were three times chubbier than those of a normal grandmothers. "Look who's decided to finally wake up from his nap."

There's a universal face every man makes when he's been undermined, when he's taken a hit to his ego and can't accept it. His brows draw down towards his nose, and his eyes glare so hard it's comical.

That face was something I lived to see in every man I encountered.

Once I've grown satisfied with the look of the

Twinkies face, my gaze coasts to the backup I suppose is here to tame little old me.

Nine men and three women.

All my father hired were lousy men, seeing as they believed women were meant to be protected from violence instead of the ones causing it. Something about this scene, however, is refreshing.

I liked the diversity.

The Twinkie of a man looks like he's going to strangle me, so does his twin, but the moment he makes a move to step forward, a loud creak echoes from behind them all, and everything stills.

Although the atmosphere before the creak wasn't loud, everyone seemed to fall completely silent and still, so still that the thick blanket of silence washing over the room rings in my ears as I watch every single person in the room lower their heads.

Not a whisper, a twitch, nor a breath out of place, and I'm smart enough to sense a shift in the murky air that sharpens to ice.

Sensing the lack of room for ignorance, I straighten my spine and know that whatever's got these people so strung up is coming from the entrance, behind them all.

The Russians in this room are naturally taller, yet I still make out the top of a dark head of hair and eyes that brush right over everyone's head.

That's when I realize that it's not a matter of whatever but whomever.

And this whoever's got eyes a rich deep blue, with a depth I'd imagine the undiscovered parts of the ocean to have. Dark, with millions of unknowns swimming in its depths.

It isn't long before the crowd is parting like the Red Sea. I can't tell if it's respect or fear controlling their mechanical movements, but the path they clear allows the governing superiority to bleed off him and travel right into the pits of my stomach.

That alone tells me this is the man behind it all.

I get a good look at my true captor, the man who's been able to stir something other than dislike in my stomach.

Alarm. Unease.

Despite the irrelevant feeling, I can tell the striking contradiction of a man who has grown accustomed to leaving those who are interested in interacting with him intimidated and beyond unsettled.

Yet it's clear what draws those people in, in the first place.

His appearance.

Conventionally attractive was too much of an understatement. I wasn't religious, nor did I believe in myth, but he was the closest I've ever come to seeing a perfectly curated man, one as godly as described in Greek mythology.

But perhaps that's all this is, a myth, an illusion, one curated in my head out of pure boredom. That's the only viable explanation as to why someone- let alone a man- was able to capture this much of my attention.

I remain unbothered, uninterested as his attention comes to me, but I can't help the ounce of electricity his entire demeanour drags out of me.

Intense. Overwhelming. Terrifying.

He scares me, just a little. And I can't help the way that fear sparks at my excitement.

This is going to be fun.

His slow footsteps sound like alarm bells in my head, calculated as he leisurely makes his way to me. And when he gets close enough to study my face, I take the moment to examine said mythological beauty, but my eyes just go right back to his.

A type so enticing and a shade so endless, one would get lost looking in them, that is, if they were brave enough to make eye contact in the first place.

Something none of the people in the room seemed brave enough to do.

That restores my ego, just a little.

I have to physically wrench my gaze from those eyes, and when I do, they move to trail the slope of his nose, impeccably straight, proportional to his face, but large enough to sit on and do a thorough job at that.

His skin is unblemished, far fairer than mine, but his lips just as pink. His face is void of any obvious emotion. Yet even when his features appear relaxed, his jaw and bone structure are strikingly sharp.

A scar mars his left cheekbone. On anyone else, I'd consider it ugly, but on him, it shatters the air of perfection that makes one question if a man like this is real.

It shatters the myth in my head, telling me this man's aura is as harmless as he is a figment of my imagination.

His touch, far from soft, caresses my chin as he grips it, his body temperature hot enough to burn my skin.

I can't help the way my body reacts, and my mind veers into dirty places. Only when I realize where I am and what this is do I force the little whore inside my head, telling me that under different circumstances, I'd fuck this man, back into her shell.

And I'm glad I do so when I realize those endless pools of blue are examining me like I'm nothing but a doll up for sale, and he's deciding if he likes me enough to keep or not.

He finally speaks, the natural gravel of his tone seeping into my ears and destroying the silence he's created in his wake. "Eta zhenshchina ne ta, kotoruyu ya khochu." (Russian| This woman is not the one I want.)

His words aren't directed at me, and the way he's completely indifferent to my existence, especially when he's the one who's leading all this shit, rubs me the wrong way.

"If you're going to have the balls to kidnap me," My voice is cool as I twist my hands behind my back, undoing the knot. "The least you could do is speak to me directly."

The man proves to be just like every other man I've encountered - shitty and useless - when he stands, towering over me in his perfectly tailored suit and ignores me. "Kto eta zhenshchina?" (Who exactly is this woman?)

His voice isn't booming or angry. It's even and calm as he straightens out, leveling my face with his crotch.