Page 146 of Monstrous Urges

“How is she?” she asks softly. “Your wife, I mean.”

I nod. “She’s fine. She’s good.” I clear my throat. “Polina, do you want to tell me what happened here? I’m not angry. In fact, you’ve arguably done me a favor.”

Not really. I would have vastly preferred to have taken Vadik to a hole somewhere and drawn out his suffering via drugs and painful but manageable infections and amputations over the course of months.

But it is what it is.

Polina frowns, turning to look over at the closed basement door.

“He liked to hit me,” she says quietly. “And hurt me. Your wife, Annika…” she swivels her gaze back to me, smiling a little. “She told me I shouldn’t let a man treat me that way. That I deserved to be respected.”

I smile to myself.

Yeah, that sounds like Taylor.

“So this time, when he hit me…I hit him back,” she says coldly. Her head turns, looking into the next room. Zoran found a bloodied metal spatula there—the kind you flip fucking pancakes with—lying on the floor.

“With the pancake thing,” she says. “In his throat.”

My brows lift as I glance around. It’s caked and dried now, but the blood is everywhere—splattered over the walls, windows, and ceiling. Soaked into the furniture and rugs. Pooled on the floor under smeared, bloody handprints on doorframes.

“He didn’t die right away,” Polina says quietly. “He…ran around a lot.” Her face darkens. “Like a chicken with its head cut off,” she spits. “I couldn’t get near him to cut him again. But when he ran past the basement door, I…” She looks away. “I pushed him down the stairs.”

“I hope the fall didn’t kill him,” I growl.

She shakes her head. “It didn’t.”

Good. Maybe I didn’t get to torture and skin him alive over the course of months. But at least the fucker didn’t get a quick death. He bled out slowly, probably with shattered bones, breathing in fear and darkness in a dank root cellar.

Rot in hell, Vadik.

Polina looks up at me with concern, like something’s just occurred to her.

“Am I going to get in trouble with the police for this?” she asks nervously.

I shake my head. “No. In fact, if it’s okay, for your own safety, I’m going to claim responsibility for what happened here. If anyone has a problem with Vadik’s death, they’ll come to me, not you.”

She nods, swallowing. “Thank you.”

“My wife tells me you’re a dancer.”

She smiles weakly. “I was. Before him,” she spits.

“I might be able to help, if you want to get back to it.”

Kir has connections with the Zakharova Ballet in New York. I fully intend to ask him to do what he can there.

“Polina, could you wait here a moment?”

She nods.

“Do you need anything? Coffee? Water?”

She smiles wryly. “A shower. I…” She glances at the basement door. “It happened almost a day ago. I was frozen and not sure what to do until your men surprised me.”

I nod. “Go. Shower upstairs. Take all the time you need. My men will stay down here.”

“Thank you,” she says softly, smiling at me. “She’s lucky to have you. Your wife.”