I didn’t know why, but I watched him, watched him lying there like a broken and abused animal. My chest would ache and no amount of rubbing over the skin could soothe it.
I’d always felt kind of trapped, mentally and emotionally lost in this Bratva life, and staring at Zaal Kostava, the man I was conditioned to hate, just broke my heart. Because he mirrored how I felt. Especially of late, I felt broken and scarred on the inside. He looked broken and scarred on the outside. I felt a connection to the Kostava. I supposed he and I were kindred spirits.
Opening my laptop, I expected to see Zaal in that same slumped sitting position, tied up in chains, hair matted and dressed only in the black pair of sweatpants Luka had insisted he wear when he was drugged that first night.
I clicked on the desktop icon, chose the camera for the basement, and waited with bated breath as it connected. As Zaal came into view, my heart immediately fell. He wasn’t sitting up as expected. He was still sprawled on the ground, body eerily still.
I leaned in closer willing him to move. But two hours passed and he hadn’t even flinched. A deep pit had formed in the center of my stomach. He looked … what if…?
I swallowed a thick lump in my throat and felt an unfamiliar hollow feeling in my heart. I knew he’d been getting worse, his demeanor had changed dramatically over the past few days. But he was strong. I thought he’d survive. I thought it was another phase of his recovery. He’d had several over the past couple of weeks.
Leaving my laptop on the dresser, I jumped off my bed. Hands on hips, I stared at the locked bedroom door and forced myself to do something I vowed I would never do.
I needed to see him up close.
I reached up and palmed the necklace lying on my chest. I thought of why my father had disapproved of Zaal’s rescue. Of why Luka had had to bring him all the way out here to the Hamptons rather than to a holding cell in Brooklyn. But no matter how much I tried to persuade myself not to do what my heart was urging me to do, a pair of jade green eyes would dominate my mind, taking it captive, and with it all rationality. Derr ‘mo! Those eyes! The sadness they held. The torture, the hurt and confusion shining in their depths, calling to me.
I had to go. He needed me.
Eto piz ‘dets! This is fucking crazy! I thought silently in Russian.
Rushing to my door, I took a deep breath at the top of the stairs and frantically ran down. Savin and Ilya, clearly back from patrolling, came busting out of the kitchen.
“Ms. Tolstaia?” Ilya enquired, “What’s wrong?”Pushing my hand through my hair, I said, “I was at my window and I think I saw someone outside. Maybe more than one. I can’t be sure?”
Savin straightened and immediately pulled out his Glock. Ilya moved toward me. He looked me straight in the eye and ordered, “Stay here!”
In seconds, they’d run out of the house. Knowing I had only a short amount of time, I hurried to the hidden safe, entered the passcode, and retrieved the basement key.
With shaking hands, adrenaline fueling my reckless plan, I arrived at the basement door. Without overthinking any rebuke from Savin, Ilya, or Luka, I entered the dark room and quietly closed the door behind me.
Pausing on the tiny landing, I inhaled a shuddering breath. Move, Talia, I told myself, just move. He needs you.
Leaving the key on a ledge, I placed my trembling hand on the handrail and began my cautious descent. With every step on the wooden stairs, my heart beat louder and louder.
When the expanse of the dark room came into sight, and my gaze fell on an unmoving Zaal Kostava, it took all my self-control not to rush over and beg him to awaken.
I couldn’t hear his breathing. His back was facing me, his oversize body curled into a fetal position, like the pain had been too much to bear. His bloodied and bruised arms and legs were completely stiff.
Reality hit home—he’d died.
Derr ’mo! What had Jakhua pumped him full of? Had whatever was leeching from his system for the past two weeks been too much for a person to bear? Even for a man as formidable as Zaal?
Folding my arms over my waist, I walked silently toward his comatose form, flinching as I saw the chains that held him so tightly in place. His tanned skin was pale and, finally seeing for myself that he was gone, I fell to my knees beside him and my shoulders sagged.
I’d watched this man for weeks; long hours spent in fascination, and as much as I tried, I couldn’t hate him. I wanted to, felt obliged to … but, hell, it had been impossible.
How could anyone hate a man breaking so badly? A man who had never known love? A man filled with such pain? A man kept chained in the darkness?