Raze & Reap (41 page)

He was, is, my brother.…

Feeling drained by the twists and turns of the day, I took a quick, hot shower, dried my hair, and lay down on my bed. I stared at the ceiling waiting for sleep that never came.

But as hours passed, my anger gave way to calm, and I found myself torn.

Luka had survived. He'd returned when all hope was gone and a fucking Kostava had been his salvation in that gulag hell.

Running my hands down my face, the memory of the Kostava monster downstairs filled my mind. My heart actually hurt when I pictured him tied up in chains, his large body bloodied, limp, riddled with scars and incision marks. How unkempt and unclean he looked, like he hadn't taken a shower in months. Like he'd known nothing but abuse and cruelty.

And the tattoo across his chest, the slave identity number that signified he'd been taken as a child, taken and made to endure unspeakably evil things at the hands of the Jakhua Georgians.

Derr ‘mo!

No matter how hard I tried to hang on to the hatred drilled into me against the Kostavas since birth, I wasn't a monster. I wasn't unfeeling. And that man, that dark, huge animal of a man had clearly been through hell.

B‘lyad!
I screamed internally.

I counted the cracks in the ceiling tiles and tried to think of something other than the naked Kostava but nothing worked. What the hell was wrong with me?

Sitting up in bed, I spotted my laptop lying on the desk. Walking to the desk I brought it back to my bed, deciding to check my e-mails, to press on with contacting fighter providers for the Dungeon's cage. Anything to distract my busy mind.

After my laptop powered on, I was just about to hit the e-mail icon, when my eyes fell on the surveillance program for the house. The entire house was wired with links on all of our devices, just in case.

I knew Ilya and Savin would have switched on the surveillance cameras as soon as we arrived at the house; I was sure the basement camera would have been turned on as well. After all dangerous enemy number one was now kept there.

I couldn't stop myself, one light tap on an icon and my screen was filled with 250 pounds of ripped and brutal Georgian.

My heart raced as I watched him, my eyes were glued to his unconscious body, his position unchanged from hours before.

I struggled to catch my breath as I watched his wide chest rise and fall. From the camera's perspective, the features of his face were perfectly showcased. And under all the blood and dirt he looked sort of … beautiful.

Swallowing, I really studied him. His black hair fell below his shoulders, a gentle wave to the thick, matted strands. Black eyebrows framed his eastern European face. His nose, at this moment, was swollen and bloodied, as were his lips. But I could see defined high cheekbones and dark stubble covering his face. Even under the swelling and blood I could see that his lips were full. His skin was a dark olive, the evidence of his Georgian heritage, and he was nothing but hard muscle. Every inch of his tall frame, perhaps six foot six, corded with protruding veins and roping brawn.

Moving back to lie against the pillows, I brought my laptop to my lap, not able to draw away my eyes. Kisa's words from earlier filled my mind.

They were twins … children … family massacred … experimented on … subjects for developing drugs … under the influence … new drug … Jakhua … his pet killer for … since he was eight …

Remembering his name, I whispered, “Zaal” to the empty room, wrapping my tongue around the pronunciation and running my finger down the picture of his unconscious form, splayed out on the black rubber floor.

Then his cheek twitched. The first bit of movement I'd seen from him since the
byki
dragged him in the house.

Pulling back my hand, I watched in fascination as his finger started to move, his legs began to stretch, and a low moan slipped from his bruised lips.

I gripped my laptop tighter and tighter the more Zaal moved.

Then suddenly, in the perfect view of the camera, his eyes shot open. Bright green eyes, captivating and beautiful green eyes. I gasped as those eyes searched the dark basement, the solitary lightbulb casting a dim glow over his body. His eyes flickered around the space, and for one split second, he looked lost. He almost looked … afraid.

My chest constricted as Zaal's gaze seemed to look directly into the camera, his captivating jade green eyes colliding with mine.

Feeling like he could see me, I lost control of my breath. My heart beat so loud, I could hear its pounding bass rhythm in my ears.

Zaal suddenly broke connection, his face contorting into a feral expression as a loud roar bellowed from his mouth. His large body quickly moved, lurching forward, only for his arms and legs to be wrenched backward as the tight chains restrained his movement.

Zaal lowered his head only to find the shackles fastened around his wrists and arms. Turning his attention behind him, he began pulling on the chains, testing the strength of the links.

With every heave, his strong muscles cording with strain, he would scream a deafening roar. When he couldn't get free, he began to pace. His expression was bone-chillingly severe and he watched the wall before him, as though waiting for someone to enter.

His head ticked, his fists clenched, he wrenched at the chains. I couldn't bear it. I couldn't watch him fall apart. As another frustrated bellow thundered out of his throat, I slammed my laptop shut. I had enough.

I tried to calm my breathing, but I was convinced my lungs had a mind of their own. I tried to calm my heart but it was racing too fast. And I tried to cool down, but my body burned with sympathetic pain. Pain of what demons must possess Zaal Kostava.

I suddenly remembered Luka, specifically, the night of the Dungeon's finals, now many months ago. He was raw and rough, but there was still something in his eyes. A flicker of humanity trying its best to push through. And he had Kisa. He had our parents, Viktor, and Kirill. He had me.

But Zaal. Zaal was nothing but unleashed aggression. His wrists were sliced and bleeding raw as he'd wrenched on the chains, and he never stopped trying to break free. It was like something tortured him, driving him to never stop.

Placing the laptop at my side, I ran to the bathroom. With trembling hands, I turned on the cold faucet and splashed the icy water on my face.

Who could do that to another person?
I thought in sadness.
Who could morally condition someone to be that brutal, that wild? That pained and insane?

But as I lifted my head and my brown eyes stared back at me in the vanity's mirror, I remembered the broken and scared look in Zaal's jade green eyes as his gaze lasered straight down the lens of the camera.

Yes, he was vicious. Yes, he was wild, but in that split second there was something more. Something of the real Zaal Kostava still lived inside him. I was sure.

Walking back to my bed, exhausted and wrought, I slipped under the covers. I closed my eyes, but my mind still wouldn't switch off.

Before I knew it, I'd reached for my laptop, and with a deep breath, I opened the surveillance icon. Zaal's frantic pacing immediately filled the screen.

Placing the laptop on my side dresser, I lay back on the pillow watching Zaal, the only living heir of the Kostavas, gradually lose his mind in my papa's basement.

As the next two weeks passed, I became completely obsessed.

My days centered around Zaal, watching him slowly breakdown. Watching him shake, sweat, and strike out at anyone who went near. I watched Luka try to talk to him, to calm him down. But Zaal would only snarl and lash out. I watched as he endlessly vomited, like he was going cold turkey off heroin. And I watched nightly as the
byki
subdued him with Tasers, in order to drug him to sleep, just to attach IV packs of food and fluids to keep him alive.

And I watched as Luka gradually lost hope that Zaal could be saved, until my father and the Pakhan called him back to help in the igniting war with the Georgians only a couple of days after he and Kisa arrived.

Fourteen days had passed and Zaal had made no progress whatsoever.

Racking pain filled my chest when his strength waned, when he couldn't move off the floor. He would sleep for hours, lying prone on the cold ground.

I lost all hope, my obsession with this man dominating my entire life. Then one day Zaal had stopped moving altogether. His lifeless body, one day, had chosen not to wake up.

And that was the day everything changed.

 

6

ZAAL

“Come here, Son.” Turning from playing in the garden, I saw my father calling me to the table to eat. I ran toward my father, and he led me to the porch where my mother, sisters, and brothers already sat. My grandmama sat at the head of the table and winked at me.

I laughed.

Father said a prayer, and then told us to eat. As I picked up a piece of bread from the basket, a loud crash sounded in the house. Father looked toward the house. He snapped his finger and thumb, ordering the guards to go and find out who it was, but they didn't move. They stared at my father and their eyes narrowed. My brother looked at me and frowned.

“Move!” my father commanded. Instead, the guards lifted their guns … lifted them at the table. My sisters screamed, my baby brother cried … but my twin reached out and took my hand. I looked at him and he looked at me. I squeezed his hand.
Be strong,
he mouthed,
keep strong.

“What are you doing?” Father asked the guards and rose from his seat, just as tens of men came flooding from the house, all dressed in black. They all held guns … guns aimed at us …

Bullets … blood … death … blood … screams … guns firing … piercing … slicing … death … death … death …

My eyes snapped open and I tried to breathe. But all I could see was
blood … so much blood
 …
blood choking my throat
 … I gasped as the image of running blood filled my mind.…

Darkness came, and when my eyes opened again, I was hot, too hot. Sweat poured from my forehead into my eyes. But I couldn't move my arms to wipe the sweat. Couldn't move them even though they ached. Poison was burning my flesh from the inside; venom and something else crawled slowly under my skin, clawing to get out.

I couldn't stand it. My stomach convulsed but no vomit came up my throat. There was nothing there, just pain. My muscles were squeezing in my thighs and back, pulling so tight they were snapping, trying to break from my skin. My saliva boiled in my throat. I couldn't scream, couldn't make a sound.

I lay on the floor, eyes watching the black walls as pictures and strange faces passed through my mind.

I couldn't remember if even I knew them.
Did I know them?

Then a face stabbed at my brain. My body jerked
. Master. Where is Master?

Darkness came and went. I tried to scream as knives stabbed right through my stomach and came out the other side. My body shook as each blade sliced through, but I couldn't move. I was too hot, too hot, but then I was too cold, too cold inside. My blood turned to ice, trying to push through my veins. My muscles froze, I was trapped on the floor.

My eyes suddenly closed, darkness pulling me down.

“Tie him to the table,” the man's voice said, and someone threw me on a metal bed and strapped me down.

What are they doing?
I was scared, so scared. I managed to turn my head, looking for help.

Then I saw him on a bed beside me. The boy's brown eyes looked at me, and he mouthed, “
Dzlieri.
Be strong. Keep strong.” His fingers reached out trying to touch mine, and I did the same, but they didn't meet
. “Dzlieri
, be strong, keep strong,” he mouthed again. I nodded my head as a man approached my table.

He ran his hands over my body, then the boy's. “Identical in every way but their eyes.” He smiled. “They'll be perfect.”

Two men held me down, then flipped me on my back. My head was forced down to the bed. I couldn't move.

Fear ran through me and I could feel my hands shaking. But as I lifted my eyes, the boy was in the same position as me, two men in white coats holding him down. His head was facing mine. His eyes met mine and he silently told me to be strong, keep strong. And I did. I didn't even scream when a long thick needle was pushed into my spine, when we were cut open, when we were beaten. Neither did the boy. We held each other's gazes and never broke away.

A voice snapped me round. Voices—no, a single voice, the same voice that I heard every day. He was speaking in a strange language.
Did I know what he was saying?

“Turn round and fight it,” he said. My eyes squeezed shut when I understood him. I couldn't turn, couldn't turn round. I wanted to growl, turn and cause him pain, but my muscles were weak, aching. I couldn't keep my eyes open.

I was floating, my breathing slow, air was dragging into my lungs. Everything was still. I waited for Master. But no Master came.

My cheek was flat to the ground, my eyes were shut. But I was numb. My heart beat at a steady pace. It didn't race or stutter. There was no pain, no fire inside.

But I was too tired. I couldn't move, my blood was no longer hot. The knives were no longer in my stomach. There was nothing.

I lay for a long time until the sound of a door creaking open caused me to still.

Quiet footsteps approached. The scent of something sweet filled my nostrils, and for the first time in a long time, my body wanted to move.

My eyes stayed closed, my back to the approaching person. My hands clenched into fists and I waited, teeth gritted for them to get close enough. They had me chained. But were they Master or the guards? The sound of their footsteps, I couldn't recognize.