Chapter 13 · His Blood

"Hold still," Dimitri said, "or I take more than I need."

The needle was already under my skin. He'd pinned my wrist flat on the steel tray himself, no gloves, thumb pressed hard over the vein like he didn't trust anyone else to find it. Two of his men stood by the door with their hands on their belts, watching me like I might still be a threat strapped to a chair.

"You already have my name," I said. "Wasn't that enough for one night?"

"Names are paperwork." He drew the plunger back, slow, red filling the barrel. "Anyone can hand me a name. Blood's harder to forge."

I watched it fill. My arm didn't shake. My voice did, a little, and I hated that.

"You think I'm lying about who my father was."

"I think Sokolov's son doesn't get sent to break me by accident." He pulled the needle out, capped the vial, held it up to the light like he was checking a wine he already knew was bad. "I think someone upstairs did their homework and thought it was funny."

"Nobody upstairs told me anything."

"That's the part I believe.