Ronnie Masters | the MENTALIST (COMPLETE)

CARNELIAN INC., : pt I

Content warning: torture

Arlov had moved her while she was unconscious.

Ronnie was sitting when she woke up the second time, which was quite a welcome change from being hung by the rafters. A few weak attempts at movement told her that her hands had been cuffed behind her back, her feet tied to the legs of the chair. Even so, she'd had worse accommodations.

The stall had become hot and humid, which indicated that night had turned to day at some point during her blackout.

Rolling her shoulder experimentally, she felt crusts of dried blood crack and peel painfully, and a fresh new stream of blood begin to flow from the incision down her front. So, she hadn't been unconscious for long.

Lifting her head took a focused effort that she hadn't been expecting, and it took a few tries to get herself sitting upright. When she did, her vision swam and a dull pounding hammered between her eyes for a few moments before fading into the background. A cursory—though blurry—glance around her prison stall informed her that she was alone. "Arlov." The word squeaked up her dry throat. She coughed and tried again. "Arlov."

The Russian oil baron appeared in the doorway, his thinning blond hair freshly gelled. "You're awake."

The hooded glare he got in return only made his smile brighter.

Stepping into the dusty, muggy stall, he opened the lid of a water bottle, and Ronnie heard the seal crack—at least it would be clean water. Arlov put the bottle to her lips and poured some into her mouth with no regard for the amount of it that spilled down her shirt. His eyes were harsh and cold as he watched her drink, and he pulled the bottle away before she was done.

She didn't care. "What are we doing, Arlov? You're pissed at me for stealing your painting? That's too bad. It's definitely not worth your time though, particularly since you stole it first—a theft which got an American killed—so what's the point of kidnapping a state agent?"

"This isn't about the painting." Arlov put the water bottle on the floor and moved back to lean comfortably against one wall. "But imagine my surprise when little Ronnie Masters appeared on my doorstep, all grown up." He crossed his arms tightly over his chest. "I tried to have your bodyguard join us, but, unfortunately, he was tied up with some FBI business."

Ronnie watched his expression turn snide. "You really think I need my own bodyguard?"

He spread his hands to indicate her situation. "You were easy enough to kidnap from your parking lot."

She sniffed. "That's a cheap victory. You caught me wounded."

Arlov shrugged. "I'm the one who wounded you, so my point still stands."

"So, you're upset that I lied to you? That's kind of petty. I still don't get it." Ronnie tested the tightness of her restraints and was dismayed to find that she had very little freedom of movement. She didn't see herself being able to break out on her own.

Arlov rolled his eyes in irritation. "You always were slow, weren't you?" He rubbed a hand tiredly over his face. "Carla may have spent her time playing mind games with you, but that's not how I deal with my people who turn their backs on me. I have very little patience for cops who know more than they should."

That didn't make sense. His people? She wasn't his people, she was Carla's people. Why did he care if Carla had been playing mind games with her?

He saw the confusion on Ronnie's face. Leaning in smugly, Arlov gave a sharp laugh. "Carla may be too prideful to admit it, but I own your mother. And by extension, I own you. She had her chance to make you see your mistakes and come home, but she made a bleeding mess of it all that I have to clean up."