The Lion's Den

Chapter 3

     The room I'm shoved into is warmer, and the air feels a bit cleaner. My bare feet are frozen now, the cold concrete taking effect on my exposed toes. 

     I glance up, hoping to see where I am. But before I get that far, my eyes latch onto something more important. Something that demands my full attention. Him.

     A pair of deep eyes. A head full of dark hair. Smooth skin on a face cut from sharp, clean angles. He's made of chiseled lines that are prominent even beneath his dark business attire. He is dark. Mysterious. He's the embodiment of danger. And damn he makes danger look good.

     He sits alert on the other side of the desk in front of me, the dark wood of the structure scattered with folders and papers. 

     I jump forward as the heavy door slams loudly behind me. The man who led me here steps in, and I've decided to call him Mr. Asshole for the time being. 

     "Brute..." I mutter under my breath. 

     "I see you have met Bert," The man behind the desk says curtly. I recognize his voice immediately. A voice laced with a strong, Russian accent, the same deep, smooth tone that ordered for the killing in the park. Images of crimson blood flash rapidly through my mind, staining my thoughts like spilt wine.  

     I look him steadily in the eye, but refuse to give him anything but my silence. 

     The beautiful killer rises from his chair, and I stop myself from shrinking at his intimidating height. I stand waiting, for what I don't know. Maybe for a strike to be landed on my face, a new bruise to add to my collection. I remind myself to hold a blank sense of composure. I will not let these men get pleasure from my fear. 

     The killer stalks slowly around his desk, coming to stand face to face with me. He looks down at me, his eyes tracing over my impenetrably emotionless face. He watches me like a puzzle, like I'm a safe with a code he doesn't know. 

     I can't stand the stare down any longer. I grasp the toothbrush in my waistband, the bristles digging harshly into my palm. I swing hard at fast, aiming loosely at the staring mans eye.

     I freeze as my swing is paused mid air, caught effortlessly at my wrist in the mans large palm. I'm stunned into silence, shock coursing my veins. 

     I flinch back as the brush is torn from my grip, and flung to the side. The mans raging eyes pin me, daring me to move. "Silly girl," he growls, then prowls back to his desk. 

     "So... tell me, girl. What is your name..." he snarls, plopping back into his large office chair. 

     "Nova Questa. And who the hell are you?" I shoot back. Fuck him. They pulled a gun on me once already, and weren't man enough to pull the trigger. 

     He leans forward on his desk. "Zivon Stransky." He smirks, and the flame inside of me dies. I will not survive this. These people are not your run of the mill criminals. They are cold blooded killers, villains of the underworld. I can't even begin to reason how I'm alive right now. 

     Zivon turns to Bert, and speaks in thick Russian. "Khm. Privedi syuda drugikh mal'chikov... Dumayu, ya khochu sygrat' v igru s nashim malen'kim gostem," I'm greatly concerned about what the evil Zivon Stransky considers a 'game', and I'd really rather not find out. My imagination makes me tremor. (Hmm. Get some of the other boys in here... I think I want to play a game with our little guest.) 

     "Da, kak naschet net. YA sobirayus' vernut'sya v etu komnatu seychas ili chto-to yeshche," I say strongly, filled with sudden bravery and the rush of revealing my secret. Is it wise to admit my understanding of their language? No. Did I think that through 30 seconds ago? No.  (Yeah, how about no. I'm going to go back to that room now or whatever.) 

     A few seconds of silence pass, as sheer rage and anger contorts Zivon's face. Men file in, oblivious to the tension in the room. I feel my face flush for fear of what I have done.

     "Out!" Zivon booms, his angry gaze burning into my face. I turn to leave, but he corrects me immediately. "Not you, Suka." (Bitch)

     Everyone flees the room, and I'm left suspended in silence. I'm going to die.

     In a burst of movement, Zivon is out of his chair and crossing the room in large steps. My breath is sucked away as I'm thrown up against the closed door, pinned by Zivon's large hand around my neck. His grasp is not enough to cut my airway, simply enough to keep me from moving.

     His minty breath fans across my face, warm and to close. I can see the threat in his eyes, the promise of punishment hiding there. 

     I try to move my hands, wanting to shove him away. But he has other plans, and uses his unoccupied hand to hold both of mine in front of my stomach. 

     "Who sent you?" he whispers in my ear, and I wish he would go back to yelling. This is so much scarier. 

     "What?! No one!" I defend, highly confused as to what he means. He doesn't seem satisfied with my answer, so I continue, "I learned Russian from online sights when I got the chance. Not to be able to talk to your self centered ass!" I roll my eyes. Oops. 

     "Hm. Well then. I want nothing more with you," He releases my neck, and places a gun to my temple. Click. He watches my eyes as he pulls the trigger.