“You killed Igor.” I felt horror as the memory of his neck being broken played through my mind over and over again, pushing past everything else.
“I did,” he finally said without a hint of remorse. “You feel empathy over that fucker’s death? You feel grief?”
“How could I not? He was a human being—”
“—you knew nothing about him.”
“I’ve known him for years as he watched over me—”
He moved forward so suddenly that my words trailed off as I felt my eyes widen. I pressed my back to the headboard.
But he didn’t come closer and instead walked over to the window, pushing aside the sheer curtain to look outside.
“Would it ease you to know that his death was justifiable?” He didn’t look at me as he said those words.
“Murder is never justifiable.” I swallowed a thick lump that was lodged in my throat. I kept my focus trained on him, watching for any signs that he was about to come after me.
I looked over at the door, which was opened, and when I glanced back at Ruin, I could see he was watching me.
“You could run. But there’s no place that you can hide from me. There’s no place I can’t find you.”
He shoved his hands in the front pockets of his dark cargo pants and took a step forward. Then another.
“I’d have no problem killing anyone who tried to keep you from me. Because, sweetheart, I’m done waiting.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. So I kept my mouth shut, thinking it was probably the smart thing to do. The last thing I wanted was to agitate him, to give him any kind of reason to hurt me.
He exhaled slowly and took another step toward me. But when he saw that I pressed my back even harder against the headboard, gripping the comforter on either side of me, a strange expression crossed his face before it hardened once more.
“Igor was worthless, a disgusting waste of human space.”
I didn’t bother denying or agreeing. I just kept my mouth shut and waited for him to finish.
“Did you know the man stationed to look after you was a coldblooded killer?”
“I’m surrounded by killers,” I said before I could stop myself.
“You’re protected and coddled, kept in a bubble so you don’t really know the fucked-up shit the men around you do.”
My breath caught.
“Igor killed children. He killed Russian boys who couldn’t or wouldn’t follow through with Bratva orders.” He took a step toward me but I was frozen and shocked by his revelation. Of course he could be lying, but why did I believe him?
“How do you know this?” It was probably a very foolish question. It was very clear he knew about me, personal things like how to get into my home, and who was guarding me.
And I had no doubt he knew much more than that.
He didn’t respond.
“It’s a shame you don’t recognize me, milaya moyna. Because for the last ten years, you’re all I’ve thought about.”
And at that he turned and left, leaving me in shock because I knew why I’d felt this familiarity with my captor.
I now knew why his eyes had evoked this weird feeling in me, pulling my memories up.
Ruin was Kostya.
Chapter
Fourteen
Anastasia
For a long time after Kostya left, I just sat there, staring at the bedroom door, unable to move because I was scared shitless and because I felt like the world had just opened up and swallowed me.
How was that beast of a man the sweet boy I’d once known? How had a decade shaped him into the scarred, tattooed man who went around breaking into women’s homes and kidnapping them… killing without a shred of mercy?
That might be Kostya, but in my heart I knew he wasn’t the boy I’d known all those years ago.
Wherever he’d gone, whatever he’d been doing this entire time had created someone I didn’t even recognize. My body might recognize the familiar scent of him, or the memory of how good I’d felt when I looked into his dark eyes, but that didn’t mean my Kostya was back.
I probably sat there for five minutes staring at the door, expecting him to come back in. When I was certain he wasn’t coming back right away, I exhaled and looked around the room.
It was minimalistic, sparse even, with the only actual pieces of furniture being the bed, the small nightstand beside it, and a dresser pushed against the wall on the other side of the room.
There was the bedroom door, one that led to the closet, and another that opened up to the bathroom.
My gaze landed on the window and I found myself getting up and rushing toward it, only to realize it was painted shut and no amount of trying to pry it open would make it budge.
When my arms ached from trying to lift it open, I turned to face the room again, sagging against the pane. I glanced at the bedroom door, not even about to see if it was locked.