Russian Roulette (Helena Hawthorn Series #1)

Prologue

A shiver induced by the stone wall ran through Helena. Her heart kicked into the next gear when she noted the restraints around her wrists. She struggled, tugging at the unforgiving shackles time and time again.

"Looks like she's finally awake," someone said in a gruff voice.

"Then get on with it," another replied.

She whipped her head around in search of the voices. The sudden action blurred her vision, causing her to squint. A low-wattage bulb at the end of the room exposed crates and stacked boxes. A bald man sat at a table, his legs crossed at the heel whilst his beefy hands held the local newspaper.

The second man pushed away from the grimy wall, sauntering towards her. His unnerving grin revealed a set of elongated canines.

A breath caught in her throat.

"Aren't you a tad bit young to be working for Alexander?" he asked.

A deep frown creased her face while her attention darted between her captors. She didn't work for Alexander nor did she ever want to see him or Lucious again.

The stranger stopped a foot away from her. Dark, greasy hair clung to his scalp in thinning streaks. A few strands separated at the front, curtaining his heavy-lidded eyes. He reached out, grabbing her hair with a sharp twist and lifted her head to meet his narrowed eyes. "I asked you a question, human."

Her nose wrinkled in disgust. His breath—a mixture of cheap tobacco, beer, and something else—caused her stomach to churn. Panic will not solve anything, she thought, yet her heart ignored her rationalisation.

"I don't work for him," she said, surprised her voice came out unshaken.

He waved at her thin shirt and smart trousers. "We saw you leaving his club looking like this."

Helena fought the urge to roll her eyes. If he'd been inside, he would know Alexander's staff didn't wear uniforms. Well, the bouncers did... "This is what anyone would wear to an interview!"

His eyes flared with a light-grey glow, and she instantly regretted her snappy tone. She flinched under his menacing stare which made her think of a glowering two-year-old she used to babysit. The kid always shot daggers her way if she didn't give him any candy.

"...you listening?" He let go of her hair with a sudden shove as he shouted at her.

Helena's head dunked, encouraging the faint ache to blaze into a full-blown headache.

"I think I hit her harder than I thought."

"Rick—" The companion set his newspaper on the table, "—if you can't get anything out of her..."

"I can!"

Helena figured the one who ran the operation was not 'Rick'. His literate friend held an authoritative confidence the man in front of her lacked. She imagined Rick struggling to read a novel by Tolstoy. The image alone made her lips twitch upwards.

"What're you smiling about? Don't you understand what's going on?" Rick snapped.

She glared at him. Arguing wouldn't help, but her mouth lost its filter. "Should I?"

Her left cheek exploded with a burning sting as he backhanded her across the face. Automatically, she moved to rub the pain away and realised with a sickening feeling what situation she was in—chained to a wall with two unknown men in a dingy room.

As a dull ache settled in her arms, she bit her lower lip to suppress her bitter tongue from bringing more trouble.

Rick leant in and peered into her face. His lips hovered next to her ear. "Let's see how much you know."