Emily knocks twice on the basement door and, a second later, it opens. She gives me a last parting smile before she disappears and the door slams closed.
When she’s gone, I lie back down on the bed and stare up at the ceiling. Despite the doctor’s advice, the only thing that keeps circling around in my head is Polly.
A pair of hazel eyes, begging for help through the darkness.
I wake up in cold sweats, so sure that they’re right there in front of me that I reach out, trying to grab Polly from their grasp.
“No!” I gasp. “No! You can’t take her.”
The darkness scatters away from me and I grasp at thin air. It was a dream. Just a dream. I’m not in that cell anymore. I’m in an entirely different basement, living an entirely different nightmare.
But once reality settles in, something pushes through the thick curtain of my memory—Polly’s panicked voice as she told me what the Russians were discussing. There’s something else scraping the surface of my memory but I can’t quite reach it.
It doesn’t matter. I have something to offer Uri. Something that might help him locate Polly. I stumble out of bed and half-limp towards the door. My right leg still hasn’t woken up, but I ignore the pins and needles as I start pounding my fists against the basement door.
“Hey! Anyone! I need to speak to Uri. It’s important!”
“Pipe down!”
I jerk away from the door, startled by the deep, commanding voice. Apparently, I’ve got guards stationed outside my basement prison this time. I shake it off. Now’s not the time to be worried about myself.
I keep up a steady stream of pleas. “I have important information I need to share. Please. Just give me five minutes. It’s about Polly! Please!”
I hear the door unlock. I step away from the door just before it swings open. But it’s not Uri standing on the other side; it’s his sour-faced older brother. They have the same bone structure, but whereas Uri’s is gaunt and sharp, Nikolai’s is blurred by stubble and more flesh around the jowls. His eyes burn a darker shade of blue.
“What do you need to say?”
I could tell him. I should tell him. But I need to see Uri. I don’t know his brother—I’m not sure I even like his brother—and I’m definitely not gonna trust him with this information.
“I’ll only speak to Uri.”
“How convenient,” he drawls in a scathing, deadpan voice that matches his expression.
“Please. This could potentially help get Polly back.”
His eyes narrow. Is that hope I see flickering across his face? Before I can figure it out, he slams the door closed hard enough that I almost lose a toe under the edge.
I recoil, confused. What the hell? Is that a good sign or a bad one? Did he think I was bluffing? That this was a ploy to see Uri again or something?
I’m on the verge of giving up entirely and just telling him what I remember from the Russians’ cell when the door opens again, almost taking my toes off for a second time.
“A little warning would be nice!” I snap, lunging out of the way.
When I look up, Uri is standing there with his eyebrows raised, a stone-cold scowl on his face. It doesn’t take a genius to interpret: This better be good or you’re a dead woman.
It’s odd to see him so not put-together. His shirt is wrinkled, his hair mussed, and the dark circles under his eyes say he hasn’t slept in days.
My first instinct is to apologize. But I have a feeling that if I start with that, he’s just gonna shut the door in my face before I can get a single word out. So I jump straight to the important point.
“I remember something about Polly.”
“Say it.” His voice is curt and robotic. Colder than ice. Nothing has ever been more emotionless.
“Polly and I were left in that cell for hours, maybe longer, before two men came down with food for us. They were Russian.”
He rolls his eyes and turns to leave.
“Wait! They had this conversation in Russian and I couldn’t understand it—but Polly could.”
Uri pauses, halfway turned toward the stairs. “Did she tell you what they said?”
I nod, desperately hoping that this information is going to help find her. “They were planning on selling her. Auctioning her off to the highest bidder.”
“And?”
I stop short. And? That’s it! Why can’t I remember anything else? My body heats up and my palms start sweating. “Th-that’s all she told me.”
He grinds his teeth together. “Did the Russians mention who they were planning on selling her to?”
My heart sinks. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I… I can’t remember anything else. The drug… Dr. Popov said my memory would be hazy.”
“So what you’re telling me is that you’re useless right now.”
“Now that you know what they took her for, can’t you… narrow it down? Maybe…” I trail off when I see the murderous glint in his eyes.
He advances on me, huge and terrifying. “Do you know how many sex slave rings exist in the underbelly of this city? How many warehouses and empty buildings hide auctions of men wagering on scared, helpless women? How many doors I’d have to kick down just to get close, and how fast they move and scatter at the slightest sign of an intruder? By the time we narrow it down… it’ll be too fucking late.”
Every single word he throws at me hurts worse than the last. I flinch against his anger—but I make myself stand my ground, because I deserve his anger. I deserve his hate.
This is all my fault.
My fault.
My fault.
“Fucking hell,” he growls. “Coming down here was a waste of my time.”
He turns to leave again but I reach out and grab his arm. It’s a knee-jerk reaction that surprises me as much as it does him. He looks down at my hand on his arm before his gaze veers up to mine.
“Uri, please,” I say desperately, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I—”
He rips his arm free. “What the hell do you want from me, Alyssa?”
I cringe. What do I want from him? Those eyes of his are weapons in their own right. “I want… I want you to stay.”
For a moment, I think he’s trying to hug me. Then his fingers twist into the hair at the back of my head and I realize what he’s really trying to do. I wince as he yanks my head back and glares down at me.
“‘Stay’?” he growls, his face only inches from mine. I should be terrified but strangely, his proximity is making it easy to ignore my fear. “I can barely even look at you.”
My throat is a solid brick, every breath an agonizing effort. “I know this is my fault,” I whisper to him. “And I would do anything to make it right. I’d take her place if I could.”
Something ripples across his face. I barely catch it before his lips fall hard on mine. It’s the most violent kiss we’ve ever shared. It tastes like salt and desperation, like anger and pain. I lap it all up, absorbing it all, dreading the moment when it will end.
And it does end, a second later. When he lets go and glares down at me as though I just tricked him into doing what he chose to do himself.