into doing it quick. Diego’s warnings about Viktor have never been far from my mind, and now I’m getting a taste of his deranged nature firsthand.
But, no, I don’t want to die—not now that I know Diego is still alive. Common sense tells me Viktor might be lying, just like he did before. There’s no proof on either front, and I can’t be sure whether my husband is alive or dead.
Viktor stops himself short, droplets of spit staining his chin from his tirade, his face a bright shade of cherry red. His eyes are wide and manic, his body quivering with the violence coiling through every muscle.
Lowering his hand, he steps back and spits at my feet. “Grebanaya suka,” he mutters, calling up the translation up from the handful of Russian words and phrases I’ve learned recently.
Fucking bitch.
I glare at his back as he stomps toward the stairs leading out of the darkness. If it’s the last thing I do, Viktor will find out just how much of a bitch I can be.
The door slams and the click of several locks follow. I’m left with only the dim bulb flickering overhead for light. The stifling humidity of the room has me feeling sticky with sweat, and the metallic taste of blood still lingers on my tongue.
Shaking my head to clear it, I look around for anything I can use to free myself. This basement is bare of anything over than a few scattered wooden chairs and a stool, plus some coils of rope hanging from the wall. My gaze falls to the remnants of Viktor’s vodka glass littering the floor near my foot. Among the tiny crystals are a few mid-sized slivers, and one huge chunk—what’s left of the bottom corner of the square glass. It’s jagged and angled perfectly for me to cut through my ropes, but only if I can manage to get it off the floor and into my hands.
I clench my teeth around a hiss of pain as I pull against my wrist bonds, extending one leg to try to reach the glass with my foot. My wrists are rubbed raw, and each movement makes them sting. My stomach muscles spasm so tight I can hardly breathe because of Viktor’s fist, and my head hurts so much I can hardly see straight. I blink and try to focus my vision, ignoring the tiny shards that embed into my calf as I try to use my first and second toes to grip the glass. It takes me several tries and earns me a series of tiny cuts in the tender skin between my toes, but I eventually grip the hunk and slide it toward me by pulling my foot in.
Once it’s resting between my legs, I take a break, panting and sweating and nearly succumbing to the need for sleep. If I close my eyes again, it’s over. I’ll probably wake up with Viktor standing over me and unknown tortures in the works. I have to get myself out of this. If Diego is alive, he’s coming; I know that without question. Even if he’s only coming to get revenge on Viktor, he wouldn’t let anything or anyone stop him. I swallow past the sensation of coming tears as I realize he probably thinks I left on my own. Maybe he even suspects me of being in league with Viktor. Our history would suggest nothing else to him. But even if he thinks I abandoned him and betrayed him, Diego will come.
But if my husband is dead, then no one is coming to get me out of this. I’m going to live out what’s rest of my life being raped and beaten to death, and those two horrors are only a whisper of what I know Viktor is capable of. I’m going to have to try to save myself and hope for the best.
Once I feel strong enough, I grip the glass with my toes again, groaning when another stinging cut sends trickles of blood down my foot. Clenching my lip between my teeth, I slowly begin lifting my leg, thanking God for the years of yoga practice that make me flexible enough to manage it. The tendons of my hips and inner thighs stretch and pull tight, twinging soreness shooting through my middle. I breathe and push through, managing to get my foot within reach of my bound hands. It’s a clumsy feat, trying to transfer the glass from foot to hand, especially when my fingers