man who might have had more than just my brothers under his control.
What if…?
As I lifted my eyes to meet his, my captor was waiting for my answer. Swallowing, I shook my head, ignoring the headache pounding in my skull. The man froze, his jaw clenching in frustration.
He stepped back to stand by my side. I braced my body for what I knew would come next. His free hand took hold of my face, lightly gripping my cheeks. He pulled my face to the side until it was facing his, mere inches from his, and he said, “You may believe you are strong, little Georgian, but I have barely begun. You will not be able to take what I can deliver if you force my hand. In the end you will break.” Flexing his arm, the inked names littering his skin protruding with the movement, he added, “You all do. I’m the fucking Smert’ Kosoy. Designed to do only one thing—kill.”
My heart missed a beat as his words drifted into my ears, and I whispered, “The bringer of death.”
My blood ran cold when this man, this scarred Russian bringer of death, smiled. Two rows of straight white teeth gleamed under his full lips, the top marred by a red scar, and his smile brought fear to my core. Because I knew he spoke the truth. Nothing on this man screamed, Safe! In fact, it was the opposite: his appearance, his very presence, screamed, Danger!
Yet, even as he reached over to switch on the cold fan, all I could think of was how he had said designed to do only one thing. Designed. Not born, not chose to, designed.
Like Zaal and Anri had been designed to kill, too, by Jakhua.
Zaal who had been turned into a killer, now a man at peace and free.
Perhaps like this man could be. My stomach clenched as I stared at his scarred body and face, those tortured blue eyes. Suddenly all I saw was my twin brothers standing before me. My brothers forced into brutal slavery. My brothers, who had once been pure and good men.
And like Zaal, my captor too could have once been a good man.
It was the last thought I had as I lost consciousness … that maybe this man could be saved like Zaal, too.
I wasn’t sure how long the punishment had lasted. When I first passed out, I woke alone. But then he did return, because he always returned. He would come back, and every time he would douse me in water and both heat and cool me until I lost consciousness again. When I awoke, his questions were endless. He would demand to know my name. He would demand to know who I was to Zaal. He would demand to know who protected my brother—their names—and how he could get to Zaal.
But pride filled my chest that even in my time of weakness, even in my disorientated state, I stayed true to my blood.
I was Elene Melua from Kazreti, Georgia, and I knew nothing of a Zaal Kostava.
I stayed shackled to the slab, fighting to keep my eyes open, when the man appeared once again. This time, his presence didn’t cause a reaction within me. I wouldn’t allow it. I had to be strong to endure his torture.
My eyes drunkenly traced his every step. Suddenly he stopped, and the collar around his neck seemed to tighten. I watched in rapt attention as he threw back his head. The corded muscles in his chest, torso, and arms tensed and protruded with thick veins. But his neck, the collar was doing something to his neck. I watched as his teeth gritted together and his body shook with rage. He released a deafening roar and promptly dropped to the floor.
My racing heart pumped the blood around my body so quickly that I could hear the rush of liquid flowing through my ears. But as tired as my eyes were, they never once strayed from the man on the floor, seemingly now broken. Minutes and minutes passed, yet he didn’t move. His head dropped forward and his torso was slumped over.
The collar. The collar was doing something to him.
Drugs? I thought, my heart breaking. Because if this man had been captured and hurt like my brothers … what was his life? What had he endured?
As I watched him lying still on the floor, I couldn’t help but see my brothers before me. In my exhausted, pained mind, all I could see was my