I just have to find it before it's too late.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Kira
I'm dreaming of the creek—Maksim's hands on my skin, his mouth on mine, the feeling that maybe we could find our way back to each other—when rough hands grab me.
I jerk awake, trying to scream, but a hand clamps over my mouth before sound can escape. Multiple hands pin my arms, my legs, lifting me from the bed.
Panic floods through me. This is it. Roman's decided I'm more trouble than I'm worth.
I fight anyway. Kick and thrash and try to bite the hand over my mouth. But there are too many of them, and they're too strong.
Something—a bag, rough fabric—goes over my head, plunging me into darkness.
Terror spikes. I can't see. Can't breathe properly through the fabric. Can't tell how many of them there are or where they're taking me.
I try to scream through the hand, try to fight, but it's useless. They carry me like I weigh nothing, through corridors that echo with footsteps.
"Stop fighting," one of them mutters. "You're just making this harder on yourself."
I fight harder.
They laugh. Actually laugh at my desperate struggling.
"Feisty one," another voice. "Boss is gonna enjoy breaking her."
No. No, I'm not going to be broken. Not by Roman. Not by anyone.
I buck and twist, managing to land a solid kick to someone's stomach. They grunt, and their grip loosens fractionally.
"Bitch!" The word is followed by a sharp pain in my ribs—someone hit me.
I cry out. They use my momentary weakness to secure me more firmly.
More walking. Descending stairs—I can feel the change in angle, the way gravity shifts. Going down.
To the basement. To wherever Roman keeps his prisoners.
To where Maksim is.
The thought gives me strength. If they're taking me to him, at least I'll see him one more time before…
Before what? Before they kill us both? Before Roman decides how we die? What if they torture him in front of me? I would rather die. I can’t watch that.
We stop. I hear metal scraping—a door opening. Then I'm thrown forward, hands releasing me all at once.
I hit the ground hard, the bag still over my head, disoriented and terrified.
"Enjoy your last night together," one of them says. "Boss says you've got until morning. Then it's over."
The door slams. Locks engage.
I'm scrambling to remove the bag, my hands shaking so badly I can barely grip the fabric.
Then other hands are on me. Gentle. Familiar.
"Kira. Kira, stop. It's me. You're okay."
