I closed my eyes again and wrapped my coat around my freezing body. The temperature in this torture chamber was colder than outside. If I couldn’t have seen the room under the red dimmed lights, I’d assume I was in a freezer of some description.
I shuffled my body back into the farthest corner when footsteps began approaching from what looked to be a narrow hallway to my left. My body shook with a mixture of cold and fear, and my eyes never left that direction.
I held my breath as the footsteps closed in. Then he appeared. I assumed it was the same man who captured me. My attention remained on the floor, on his bare feet. I did not dare look up. His feet were rough, but I could see by the shape of his legs underneath his black sweatpants that he was huge. The sweatpants were loose, but I could see the definition of his thighs; they were thick and muscled.
The room was deathly silent, my warm breath misting before me due to the low temperature in the room. I could hear his breathing as he stood beside the cage. Heavy breathing, slow, a low rasp in its sound. I kept my head down, waiting for what he would do next. But he didn’t move.
Minutes and minutes passed in strained silence. I kept huddled in my corner, and he stayed exactly where he was, next to my cage. His feet were pointing in, and even without lifting my head I knew that he was staring at me. I could feel the weight of his intense glare bearing down.
The longer we stayed still, the more the dank coldness seeped into my bones. My lips became numb and my teeth began to chatter, the clattering of their touch sounding deafening in this dimly lit hell.
Then he moved.
It was simply a flicker of a movement, but it was enough to make me stiffen in anticipation of what he would do next. Was he just going to kill me? Was he going to take me into the mouth of the chamber and torture me? My head ached as my mind raced with the fear of what was about to transpire.
The sound of metal clanging against metal forced me to look up. I instantly regretted what I had done. It was what he wanted. He’d wanted me to break.
A calloused hand was holding a black metal rod, a metal rod that was pressed against a metal bar of the cage. I froze as my eyes stayed on that metal rod as it focused on that hand. It was large and scarred, and my gaze traveled up the muscled bare arm holding the rod like it was an extension of his arm. His skin was fair in tone, the complete opposite of mine, but it was covered in a mass of dark tattoos. They were muddled writings etched in black ink. They appeared to be a swirling, disorganized list of names brandished on his skin.
I swallowed, my mouth becoming incredibly dry. I tried to make out the names, and when I did my stomach dropped again. Most were Eastern European: Russian, Ukrainian, Serbian. But what scared me most was the appearance of the Georgian.
Georgian.
My pulse pounded in my neck so fast I was sure it was protruding out of my skin. Georgian, I thought again. My mind raced with what these names meant. Were they people he had killed? Were they people he knew? Were they the people he worked for?
The rod suddenly moved. My eyes couldn’t help but follow the tip of the rod to the top of the metal bar, and when I did it brought with it the view of my captor’s chest. My nostrils flared as I studied his bare broad chest. A large tattoo reading “194” was the centerpiece, and the swirl of names continued over his thick muscled chest and torso. But that’s not what had me losing control of composure, panic and anxiety setting in. No, that belonged to a black metal collar sitting tightly around my captor’s neck. A wide neck with muscles stacking high on his bare shoulders.My heart thundered when I wondered what the collar was for. Who had put it on him? What did it do?
The captor jerked the rod to the top of the cage, but I kept my eyes from meeting his. I did not want to look into his eyes; I did not want to see his face. In my head that made this all too real. But then a buzzing sound came from the tip of the rod, an electric sound traveling through the metal cage. A shock sparked against the part of my back that was leaning against the bar. I jumped forward, crying out in pain. The electric shock had burned my skin.
And then I did look up. My gaze slammed to meet his and all the blood drained from my face.
Dilated eyes stared at me from a sternly featured face—a heavily scarred face, deep scars like road maps over his cheeks and forehead. His pupils were so large and black, I could barely make out the color of his irises, the appearance of the blown pupils only adding to his menacing visage. The scars continued off his face and ran up over his shaven head.
My God, I thought; he looked like a monster. I continued to study his face, unable to look away. Under the scars, high cheekbones covered in dark stubble framed his face along with his strong jaw and broad forehead. His lips were full, his bottom lip slightly fuller than the top. Jet-black eyebrows arched perfectly over his predatory eyes. His right cheek was marked with a prominent long scar that started at his temple and ran down his cheek, cutting through the dark stubble, cutting under the metal collar, and traveling low to his defined right pectoral muscle.
As I looked up, I swallowed, my hands trembling even more as his eyes remained fixed on mine. Those penetrating dilated eyes the only unscarred or undamaged part of his entire face. The only human part of him.
Sucking in a shuddering inhale, I waited for him to speak. With a slam of the metal rod against the metal bars, a jolt of electricity sang as it traveled through the metal bars. I scurried farther into the center of the small cage, only bringing me closer to my captor’s dominating presence. From what I’d seen from Zaal’s picture, this man could surely rival him in height and width.
My eyes were wide, my arms holding my coat tightly around my waist, when my captor struck the bars one again and aggressively commanded, “Davdget’!”
I flinched at the guttural, harsh sound of his voice. Then ice ran through my veins. It had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. The man had spoken to me in Georgian. He commanded me to stand. Though it was clear from his accent that he was Russian.
He knew I was Georgian.
My eyes closed while I debated the probability that he knew who I was. But I steeled my nerves and resolved to deny my true name.
I was Elene Melua, a poor farm girl from Kazreti, Georgia. And I knew nothing of the Kostava Clan. I knew nothing of Zaal.
The rod striking the bars with an incredible force caused me to jump in shock. My captor screamed, “I said stand!” in his heavily accented Georgian.
Fear alone had me lurching to my feet, the ceiling of the cage now only a few feet above my head. I suddenly felt closed in and claustrophobic. I was terrified. As weak as I know that makes me sound, when my family had been known for their strength, I was terrified of this man.