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EIGHTY-ONE: What Are You Doing Here?
publish date:
2026-09-14 02:49:30
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Her Neglected Scars EIGHTY-ONE: What Are You Doing Here?
The guard’s heavy leather glove clamps onto my shoulder, fingers digging into my collarbone.“I said move, you fucking lunatic!” he grunts, giving me a violent shove backward.My bare feet catch on the edge of the stone curb.I hit the wet pavement hard, the impact jarring straight up my spine.My hands fly out to catch myself, and the coarse gravel gouges into my palms, tearing open the scabbed skin on my wrists.Fresh red blood beads up against the grey dirt.“Wait—please!” I scramble onto my knees, wiping my bleeding hand across the thigh of my filthy jeans. “Just take a message to him! Tell Konstantin I’m at the gate! Five minutes—that’s all I need! He knows who I am!”The guard steps through the pedestrian gate, unholstering his rubber nightstick.He taps it against his palm with a slow, dull thud. “You think you’re the first cracked-out whore to show up here claiming she’s the boss’s wife? We dragged two off the property yesterday. Get your ragged ass out of here before I use th
Her Neglected Scars EIGHTY: The Journey Back
I turn the brass knob on the sink and splash icy water onto my face.The shock cuts through the fog in my head.I wipe my wet skin with the sleeve of my wool sweater, staring at my bloody knuckles in the mirror before I turn the latch and step back out.Miranda is sitting on the edge of the sofa, swinging her bare legs like a child.Babushka Elena hands me a basin of warm water and a clean washcloth.“She needs a sponge bath,” the old woman whispers. “I’ll fetch clean clothes.”I take the cloth, dipping it into the warm water, and kneel in front of my mother.I scrub the black soot off her cheeks, wiping down her frail shoulders while she picks at a loose thread on her sleeve.Pyotr sits by the wood stove, cleaning his pipe with a pocketknife.“Do you have a phone?” I ask, my voice gravelly. “A landline? Anything?”Pyotr shakes his head, sliding his knife back into his pocket. “No wires up these mountains, girl. No cell tower signal either. Rain cuts out the old radio half the time.”
Her Neglected Scars SEVENTY-NINE: Where Is My Baby?
The diesel exhaust slams into my face first.HONK!The headlight turns the grey rain into a wall of blinding white.The ground shudders under my bare soles as tons of steel roll down track four.“MOM!”I hurl my body across the iron rail.The cowcatcher of the locomotive is twenty feet away, grinding against the wet tracks with a shower of orange sparks.I drop to my knees beside the wooden rail tie, my raw knuckles gouging into the wet hemp rope binding my mother’s waist.The fiber is soaked and swollen tight.Pain blasts up my arms as my torn wrist tendons strain, but I don’t feel it.Adrenaline burns right through the agony.I grab a jagged piece of rusted steel band from the ballast rocks, jamming the sharp edge between the rope and her waist, sawing frantically back and forth.Click-click-crack!The rope snaps.I wrap both arms around my mother’s frail chest, shove off the gravel with my bare heels, and throw us both backward into the mud embankment beside the tracks.BOOM-CLACK-
Her Neglected Scars SEVENTY-EIGHT: Mom
EVANGELINEThe heat hits before the sound does.W-what’s happening?It creeps down through the cracks in the ceiling, thick and heavy, reeking of scorched oil and pine wood.My lungs burn on the first inhale, coughing so hard my torn back muscles scream against the soaked bandages.Smoke pours down the stone stairs in rolling grey clouds.Fire. There’s a fire somewhere. Shit.“Konstantin!” I scream again, my voice tearing down the middle. “I’m down here! Konstantin!”Nothing comes back.No heavy boots on the stairs. No orders barked in Russian.Just the violent crackle of wood collapsing on the floor above me.The guards are gone. Sofia is gone.And if I stay chained to these concrete iron rings for another three minutes, I’m going to bake alive.I pull against the right cuff.The iron edge bites deep into my wrist, gouging through skin down to the tendon.Pain flares white across my eyes, but I don’t stop.I jam my right thumb inward, forcing the joint down until the bone pops out of
Her Neglected Scars SEVENTY-SEVEN: Moya Devochka
“Where?”I don’t wait for Carlos to answer. I’m already out of bed, shoving past him into the hallway.My thumb flicks the safety off my Glock. I slide it into the holster at my spine, grabbing my jacket off the chair without slowing down.“Old industrial plant near the south canal,” Carlos says, sprinting beside me down the stairs. “One of our scouts spotted two unmarked Bennington SUVs pulling into the loading bay twenty minutes ago. He saw armed guards on the roof.”“Get them,” I order, my voice flat and cold. “Four cars. No negotiation. Every breathing soul in that building dies today.”Two minutes later, we’re tearing through the rain-slicked streets of Saint Petersburg in the back of a black SUV. The engine roars under us, water splashing against the wheel wells. Nobody in the car speaks.I reach into my jacket and pull out the lace handkerchief Evangeline left on her vanity three days ago. I wrap it around my knuckle, feeling the cotton against my bruised skin.Hold on, moya d
Her Neglected Scars SEVENTY-SIX: Konstantin
KONSTANTIN3 Days Ago* * * The heavy silver breakfast tray feels ridiculous in my hands, but I take it from the young maid anyway.“Mr. Morozov, I can carry that up for Mistress Evangeline—““I’ve got it,” I cut her off, my voice flat. “Get back to the kitchen.”She nods quickly and backs away, smoothing her apron before disappearing down the stone corridor.I shift my grip on the polished handles, turning toward the east wing.The morning air inside the manor is damp and freezing, smelling faintly of pine soot and wet concrete from the courtyard outside.When I reach Evangeline’s bedroom, I don’t see her.I see six-year-old Leonid standing on his tiptoes in front of her door, his small fingers straining to reach the heavy brass latch.He’s wearing his oversized flannel pajamas, his dark hair sticking up on one side, clearly trying to sneak in to bug her for breakfast.“Leonid.”The kid jumps half an inch off the floor, gasping as he spins around.In his sudden panic, his small hand
Her Neglected Scars SIX: Between Hard Poles and Walls
Blending in has never been my strongest suit, especially when it involves pole dancing and psychopaths. I was taught to dance by world-renowned professionals from all over the world, but not this—no, not this. As much as my father wanted me to seduce men, which would mean dancing like this in a nu
Her Neglected Scars FOUR: Tears, Tea, Trouble
Staring down danger over a tea party is a great reminder that life loves throwing curveballs when you’re least prepared. But on the bright side, I think I’m finally sure he’s six-foot five.I swallow the lump in my throat as those muddy, red eyes penetrated through my very being, sending electricit
Her Neglected Scars THREE: Poisoned Gazes
Whip burns and brotherly love: because one form of torture just isn’t enough. The room was heavy with unspoken tension as my brother gently applied the salve on the wounds on my back, his touch lingering a bit too long.I asked for the maids, but I guess they, too, were far too afraid to go agains
Her Neglected Scars TWO: To Punish the Brave One
When you dig your own grave, you better be ready to lie in it, but damn, this is one deep hole.Bloody pupils that look and feel like it’s seen murderous things penetrated right through the small slats of the closet. He doesn’t move, nor does he stray his eyes away from mine. Instead, his lips, ca
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