Pain blasts across my cheek and my mask flies off my face as my head whips to the side from the behemoth’s backhand, but I catch myself on the edge of the operating table and clutch the bags of plasma to my chest, saving them from falling to the floor and becoming unusable, before swinging hard eyes up at the terrifying brute.
“Is no blood, shlyukha. You no give,” he snarls.
His heavy Russian accent and the fiery heat spreading through my face make understanding him difficult, but monsters like him view any signs of pain as weakness, so I return his glare with one of my own and snarl right back at him.
“It’s plasma. He needs it. You. Move. There.”
I jab a finger at his chest before pointing at the corner of the room. Amusement lights his eyes and the thick scar running from his eyebrow to the corner of his mouth twists his features into a terrifying mask. Nausea grips me and a chill runs down my spine.
He reaches out, pinches my chin with his forefinger and thumb, and lifts my face. My skin crawls. He may be the first person to touch me in over two weeks, but he’s the last person on the planet I want to alleviate my touch deprivation. I’d rather spend a year without skin-to-skin contact than have his hands on me. My disgust and fury lend me strength.
When I don’t flinch, his smirk widens. He leans down and rubs his thumb over my chin, smearing his filth on my face.
“Be careful, suka, or I take you with me,” he sneers.
I quirk a brow and glance at the gun dangling from his other hand, then shift my attention to the giant man overflowing the operating table. Caked in soot and blood, with multiple gunshot wounds and burns covering over half of his body, the probability of the man’s survival is low. Which makes the scarred monster’s threat even more terrifying.
“Before or after your buddy dies?” I quip.
The surgeon, my identical twin sister and younger sibling by three minutes and nineteen seconds, calls out in warning. The machine near the head of the table beeps. I shoulder my way past the caveman, relieved when he lets me go, and check the monitor for the patient’s stats before swapping the empty blood bag with a full bag of plasma.
Tension coils through the room as I recalculate and adjust the flow of his intravenous medicines as my sister and her assistants rush to save the man on the table.
Our lives depend on it. Even though we’re a tiny outpatient clinic on the outskirts of New York City without the proper equipment or staff for such an acute emergency case, when Russian thugs burst through the door and demand we save their leader at gunpoint, we have no choice but to try.
I don’t know how we landed in this hell, but we need a savior. I’d even take one of those antiheroes from my sister’s dark romance books.
With my luck, we’re more likely to end up with someone way worse, like a local gang leader, a corrupt cop, or—my brain screeches to a halt as the absolute worst-case scenario runs through my mind.
If these men are involved with the mafia, we’re fucked. My sister and I won’t survive if they figure out who we are.
I startle as the door bangs open.
On instinct, I reach into the bond with my twin and suck all the surprise from her.
Her eyes never waver from her work and her hands remain steady as she continues the operation.
Another Russian man staggers into the room. Even with the smell of blood and antiseptic permeating the air, his stench punches into my nostrils. He reeks of alcohol, urine, and fear sweat. With eyes full of hatred, he lifts his pistol.
I lunge in front of the table. My ears ring as several weapons fire, but other than the throbbing in my face, no pain rises.
The newcomer falls to the ground. I turn.
My sister looks up and meets my eyes with her hands still buried in the patient’s abdomen. With the bottom half of her face covered by the surgical mask, the top half hidden behind her protective shield, and the magnifying glasses obscuring her right eye, I can’t read her expression, but I don’t need to.
After a grateful nod, she dives back into her work. Her assistants’ screams ended a few seconds after the gunshots rang out, but the women rise with obvious reluctance when my sister demands their attention. With shaky hands, Tabitha, her lead assistant, passes her a sterile scalpel.
My sister’s annoyed glance spurs the team into collecting themselves and giving her their best.
A shadow falls over me. Ice fills my veins. I stiffen and step backward toward the IV stand as I swing my gaze up to the monster encroaching on my personal space.
He grabs my hair and yanks my head back so hard pain spears up my neck and reverberates through my skull. An embarrassing squeak escapes my chest as I flail, but I shuffle my feet, regain my balance, and curl my hands into fists, barely resisting the urge to lash out.
I flinch as he skims the barrel of his pistol along the base of my throat, the warmth of the metal shocking.
“Why?” he snarls.
“Why what?” I demand through gritted teeth as he trails the gun up the side of my neck.
“Why you protect my boss?”
The feral, frozen wasteland shining from his asymmetrical blue eyes—the scar pulls his brow in a lopsided scowl—freezes me to the very core of my being.
“I didn’t. I protected my friends,” I respond.
The unhinged fascination swimming in his gaze fills me with disgust.
“Stupid suka. They no do same for you,” he nods toward my coworkers, “but I do.” He taps his chest with his gun in his fist as though my fear makes him proud. “Now and later. When we kill your friends, I keep you. Protect you, da?”
My skin crawls at his lascivious tone.
“I’d rather die.”
I curse my wayward tongue but refuse to take back the words since they’re true. I’ve suffered at the hands of evil men before and I won’t do it again unless it’s to save my sister. Anyone else can go to hell.
He curls his scarred lips into a terrifying smirk and leans closer until his nose almost touches mine.
“I do not mind. A pet is more fun, da?”
My sister saves me with an urgent command. The monitor beeps in warning. I lean back and lift my brow in question.
He scowls and shoves me toward the head of the operating table.
I stumble and hiss when my thigh bangs into the corner of the IV stand, but I catch myself and check the patient’s lines before diving back into calculating his medicinal needs. I shield my sister from both the tension in the room and my inner turmoil as a few other men enter and exit the room at odd intervals—each stepping over the dead body without reaction—to speak in Russian with the monster overseeing the operation.
Several hours later, with my feet numb from standing and my lower back aching, I switch mental gears as my sister completes the last stitch and snips the surgical thread.
As her team winds down, I launch into full-throttle mode, beginning the first of many steps to bring the behemoth safely out of deep sleep.
My spine throbs as I adjust his medicines and check his responses, but I lean over and peel his eyelid open to ensure his pupil reacts to the light before instinctually reaching for my clipboard to log the changes.
Realizing my mistake, I pull the cart closer instead. The Russian monster’s eyes roam over me. Ants crawl on my skin.
Half a dozen men burst into the room. Even though their language sounds naturally harsh to my ears, their urgency raises the hairs on my nape.
I freeze as a blood-encrusted hand grabs my arm. With both hands on the bag clamp as I adjust the flow, I can’t drop my arms to protect myself without flooding the patient’s veins, and after such an extensive surgery, he may never recover from the imbalance.
Every muscle in my body locks up as the Russian monster presses himself against my back. Bile rises in my throat as he murmurs in my ear.
“You still have duty to boss, da? Be good girl and come with me. Get him the best drugs. Now.”
As the thugs push the surgical team away from the table and transfer the patient to a rolling bed, I give a stiff nod, pretending acquiescence, and knock his hand off my arm as I move the IV bags to the hook above the bed.
“The medicine is down the hall in the—”
Gunshots echo from the front of the building. He curses and gestures with his gun. I use the chaos and slip to the other side of the bed as I follow his crew. He directs half the men toward the shooting and the other half toward the back exit.
The moment his heel crosses the threshold, I slam and lock the double doors together before bolting them to the frame and dropping to my ass against the wall. His furious yelling curdles my heart, but I shift further away from the door and scan the room for my coworkers. He kicks the door twice, then curses and promises to return before stomping away.
We cower in exhausted, shell-shocked silence as the battle rages outside. My sister, who sits on the floor behind the surgical table between her assistants, pulls her face shield, mask, and glasses off her face. The deep lines bracketing her eyes and the divots on the bridge of her nose from the weight of the glasses may be the only outward signs she shows of her ordeal, but her emotional upheaval sends waves of stress through our bond.
With her concentration broken, she struggles to remain in control, but she shoves me away like she always does when she isn’t operating. I pull my presence tight around myself and avert my gaze, trying to give her the space she needs to cope.
I’ve caused her so much pain over the years. She has every right to pull away from me. Because of me, she no longer has a mother. Because of me, she lost her family and friends. Because of me, she can never return home.
My cheek throbs. Pain radiates through my thigh. I shake as first one stampede of footfalls then another thunders down the hall. My adrenaline drops, but as a man calls out, the band of fear clamps harder around my chest, making it more difficult to breathe.
“Police! Open the door and keep your hands where we can see them.”
I don’t move. I know I should, but I can’t. My feet refuse to lift from the linoleum. Indecision worms through me.
The last time I opened the door for a cop, my world came tumbling down. My mother’s screams echo in my memory. Her empty eyes haunt my nightmares. A part of me would rather deal with the Russian mob than the police, but I shove my misgivings aside and meet each of my coworkers’ eyes as I shuffle toward the door. The relief shining on their faces gives me the encouragement I need.
With shaking hands, I unbolt one side of the double doors and work the center latch free before looking through the window and meeting the eyes of the man on the other side. I raise my hands above my head and step backward, almost tripping on the dead man before blindly skirting around him.
The next few hours pass in a blur. Several policemen ask me basic questions, but I answer with as little detail as possible, praying my coworkers do the same, and avoid eye contact with my sister until the officials give us permission to head home.
Without a word, myself, my sister, and her two assistants, Tabitha and Ariel, cluster in the on-call room. After waiting my turn for a quick shower, I emerge with skin pink from the hot water and raw from my harsh scrubbing. My sister gives me a once-over, and for a moment, I don’t know how to respond to her tight expression, but then Tabitha breaks down and sobs.
I open my arms and gather the three women into a group hug. My sister and I have spent more time with these two ladies than with anyone else in our entire lives, so in some ways, I feel like a big sister to them, but I’ll always be an outsider. Livia is their leader and friend. I just offer support where she lets me.
Ariel joins Tabitha in releasing her emotions. Tears wet their faces and drip onto our shirts, but I hold them tighter and take a chance by resting my hand on my sister’s shoulder. She leans into my touch and drops her head onto my arm. I breathe a sigh of relief and soak up the contact, shoring the sensations away for when I feel touch starved.
Which is always, but she doesn’t owe me access to her body. She is her own person, and my guilt prevents me from asking her for more.
My throat thickens, but the moment is too precious for me to shed tears, and if all four of us break down, we’ll never leave this room, so I brace myself against the onslaught of emotions and focus on breathing through the turmoil.
For a few minutes, Livia cries softly between them, but she regains her composure and coaxes them back to the present.
“I thought we were for sure dead until you locked the door, Loretta. You saved us. Thank you,” Ariel sniffles.
Livia stiffens. I shake my head.
“We wouldn’t have survived if you three hadn’t stayed level-headed and saved that man. You’re the real heroes,” I say.
My sister reaches through the circle of people and cups my cheek. I hold my breath, dreading the moment she’ll pull away.
“Does it hurt? We should put some ointment on before we head home,” she suggests as she ghosts her thumb over where the Russian backhanded me.
I swallow and fight tears of gratitude.
“Yes, please.”
When my voice only slightly wavers, I give myself a mental pat on the back.
“You two are so sweet. You’re both so lucky to have each other,” Tabitha says. She dabs her eye with her sleeve before squaring her shoulders and extracting herself from the hug. “Now let’s head out before we fall apart again.”
Ariel agrees. My smile tightens despite my effort to hide my apprehension.
When Tabitha and Ariel linger instead of heading straight out the door, I retrieve the tube of ointment and offer it to Livia. She takes it from me and squeezes some onto her finger before dabbing it on my cheek and chin. With her lips in a thin line of concentration, she smooths the ointment over my face. I close my eyes and savor the care and devotion sinking into me from her touch.
It ends much too soon, but I thank her and put the ointment away before flinging my purse over my shoulder and following the small group out the door. We stay as a tight unit through the halls and into the streets, and for a few blocks, we walk in relative silence. Even with the various light sources, in my mind, every shadow holds writhing monsters. The tension emanating from my sister and her friends keeps me on high alert. I stay close on their heels with my head on a swivel, ready to jump in like a scrappy guard dog if any threats arise, but the walk proves uneventful.
Tabitha and Ariel hug Livia before offering me a farewell wave and hustling down the block toward their building.
Livia and I continue side by side for a few more minutes before reaching our destination. After she uses her key card to enter the building, I press mine to the elevator reader and stick my hand over the door sensor until she’s safely inside. She leans into the back corner and closes her eyes as I mash the button to our floor and stand at the front, shielding her from potential danger as we ascend and the doors open again. I scan both directions before stepping into the hallway and holding the doors open for her. She walks behind me until I stop beside her apartment.
“Can I—” I stop before I invite myself over for what we called a puppy pile when we were kids. We used to curl up with our older brother and mother like a litter of puppies, but those ended the moment my mamma died.
I swallow the lump in my throat.
She’s too tired. I can handle being alone. My twin needs her space.
“Can I have another hug?” I ask instead.
After a slight hesitation, she steps forward and wraps her arms around me. I return the hug with equal pressure and thank her, but I let go the moment she drops her arms.
I clear my throat and adjust my purse higher on my shoulder. Knowing neither of us is okay and asking her more questions will just grow the divide between us, so I shift into a quick farewell.
“Call me if you need anything,” I say.
“I will. Thanks, Loretta,” she responds.
It’s not the declaration of love I crave, but it’s more cordial than I deserve, so I wait until she latches the bolt of her apartment door behind her before turning to the apartment across the hall.
After wanding my key card, I step over the threshold and kick the door closed with my heel. When the automatic light flicks on overhead, I drop my purse on the front table and sit on the bench to remove my shoes. I untie my sneakers and tuck the laces inside before sliding them into the shoe organizer.
The light turns off.
My control snaps. With no one around to cast judgmental eyes over me, the day’s trauma roars through my veins. The Russian’s scarred face fills my memory, and the need to lash out becomes too strong.
I kick the shoe organizer again and again until it topples over. With fury in every move, I rise, step over the mess, strip down to my black sports bra and boxer briefs—leaving a trail of clothes behind me in the darkness—and strap on the heaviest ankle and wrist weights I have before squaring up with the freestanding heavyweight punching bag in the center of what should be my dining nook.
Even though my sister has only visited my apartment four times in the five years we’ve lived in this complex, I keep the kitchen, living room, bathroom, and guest room spotless and ready for her. Devoting my dining area as my workout spot meant buying multipurpose furniture for the living room—a modular couch, height adjustable coffee table, and long-armed lamps—for the rare occasion she drops by for a meal or to watch a movie, but it’s worth it. Livia likes the versatility so much she got one of her own modular couches for her apartment. It’s a different brand, color, and style, but still a modular couch.
I hope she thinks kind thoughts of me every time she sits on it, even though I know she most likely curses me.
With my fear and frustration flooding my veins, I skip warming up and land a flurry of bare-knuckle punches on the bag. The pain traveling up my arms and into my shoulders releases the toxins trapped in my body.
With only the dim floorboard lights in the kitchen illuminating my apartment, the bag becomes a Russian giant.
I hit harder. Slam my fist into his solar plexus. Jab his ribs with my elbow. Swing from the hips and bury my knuckles into his stomach. Knee him in the crotch. Shove him away. Kick his liver.
For a few minutes, nothing exists beyond the burning in my muscles and the bag representing my new demon. When my turmoil finally fades, I flop onto the floor and yank the hook and loop straps of the weights off my ankles and wrists, the harsh sound comforting since I control it. With my body spent and my soul numb, I heave and spend some time staring up at my white ceiling in the darkness.
My phone buzzes in my pocket somewhere on the floor between the living room and kitchen. I sigh and drag myself onto my feet before cleaning my mess robotically.
With the apartment reset to perfection, I take a quick shower and drop into bed for a few hours of shut eye, but every time I dip into sleep, nightmares wake me.
Premonition pulses through me. I tuck my misgivings tight around me, protecting my sister from my negativity despite the block she holds between us.
When my stepsister framed me for things I didn’t do and coerced our stepmother to exile us from our mafia family eighteen years ago, our brother stepped in and funded our education, but Livia and I vowed to never get tangled up in a criminal lifestyle ever again.
We broke our vow, but not by choice.
Intuition tells me this is only the beginning. As terrifying as the Russian mobsters were, their leader’s gruesome injuries attest to their enemies being much worse.
We can’t work at the clinic anymore. I don’t know how I’ll convince Livia to leave when she finally found her surgical dream team, but it isn’t safe for either of us.
The vilest creatures on the planet are sure to follow the monsters we met today, so we need to be far, far away when they come, otherwise we’ll be fucked.
I’m already a target for one devil. I don’t need another on my tail.
Sleep never comes. I rise for another grueling day.
