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 spilt 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.