Smoothing my silk robe down, I draw in a deep breath. This feels right. Monica, my new therapist taught me how to check in on my rising levels of stress before I exploded or shut down.The sad realization that it was the MacTavish compound that triggered me made me cry through that whole session with her, but it made sense. I was kidnapped right outside the gate that first time. I remember screaming for my mother as those men threw me, my auntie, and my cousins into the van. I could never recover or make much progress because I never understood that my childhood home was holding me back.
I’ll always love my family’s estate, but when I think of home now, I realize that’s in London. With Alastair.
When I hear the knock on the door, I groan. Apparently my husband did hear about the MacTavish “tradition,” though it’s hard to believe any of my brothers would tell him.
“Please don’t tell me that those wallopers told you about-” I open the door. It’s not my husband.
This man looks bad, bruises all over his face, a black eye, and a cut lip.
My heart gives a leaden thump. He should not be here.
Pushing my shoulder against the door, I try to slam it shut. He kicks it open before I can lock it, knocking me into the dressing table.
“No greeting?” he says, “I’m so disappointed. You should be thanking me for my match-making talents.” He locks the door, putting the key in his pocket. He’s wearing a rumpled caterer’s uniform; I hope he didn’t kill the poor soul he stole it from.
“Are ya’ mad?” I snarl, putting the bed between us. I just need a second to get into the bathroom and lock the door…
“Ah-ah!” He’s got his fist in my hair just as my fingers touch the door knob, yanking me back viciously. “We have so much to talk about.”
“Every MacTavish in the clan is on the grounds right now,” I say, gritting my teeth as I feel some of my hair pull loose as he drags me across the room. “If you hurt me, my husband will keep you alive for weeks in agony before he lets you die.”
He gives out a short, bitter laugh. “You think I’m afraid of dying? Your fucking family killed my brother. I barely got out of there. But I knew…” he gives my hair a brutal yank, shaking my head, “that I couldn’t take my place in hell without dragging you down there with me, you cunt.”
“Who are you?” He’s not from the Zhang or Chen Triads. He speaks with an Eastern European accent, but I can’t narrow it down. A trickle of blood oozes down his forehead as the veins there bulge dangerously.
“I’m disappointed. You don’t remember? Vuk Dimitrijevic. My brother and I ran the biggest business in the Red Trade.”
I remember now.
He was standing off stage at the meat plant that night, his grin stretching to feral proportions as the bids on me went higher.
“It wasyou.You did it. You sold me. And all those other girls! You evil bastard! I remember.” The memory makes me scream with rage. My skin is on fire and I want to kill him. I want to tear out his eyes.
He hauls me along so quickly that I fall to my knees, gritting my teeth against another scream as he pulls me up. My hands are gripping his wrist, it feels like I’m being scalped.
“I’m going to hurt you,” he says, “I’m going to tear you apart and then I’m going to gut you like the sow you are.”
Laughing a little wildly, I search for something to use as a weapon. Unless I can stab him in the eye with a mascara wand,I’m out of luck. “And here you are,” I gasp, “the man with the survival skills and the good looks of a fecking cockroach. You canna get out of here if you hurt me. Run. It’s your only chance.”
He’s dragged me over to the windows and I can see out onto the gardens. There are people everywhere, but I know with these heavy, lead glassed windows no one will hear me if I scream.
“See that?” Vuk croons in my ear, licking the side of my face as I groan in disgust. “None of thosesvinjeare coming to save you, slave. I’m going to fuck you half to death and then cut your throat to finish you off, just the way we should have that night at the meat packing plant.” His other hand grips my neck, choking me, the sting of his nails digging into my skin.
His bloodshot eyes are wide, maddened as he snarls, “Because that’s all you are. Fucking meat! You’re fucking meat and I’m going to carve you up-”
He’s so close to the window,a cold little voice reminds me.If you fall toward the glass, he’ll go right through it.
When he pulls a knife and cuts into my robe, I scream, digging in with my bare feet and driving us toward the window. Shoving my head into his chest, I push with every ounce of strength I have.
There’s a loud cracking sound and the glass splinters but doesn’t break. He’s screaming something, trying to get his balance and I scream too, bashing his head against the glass again and again, finally breaking it and sending him flying backward out the window.
But he doesn’t let go of my hair.
“Ah!” My chest hits the windowsill, slamming the breath out of me as I scrabble against the wood to hold on. Halfway out the window, I can see he’s grabbing one of the slate tiles in one hand and my hair in the other. I can’t breathe, I feel my grip gettingweaker and his grip on my hair pulls my head violently to the left.
There’s a big chunk of glass still wedged in the frame. I can’t let go of the windowsill to grab it; I’ll go over the edge too.
“You’re coming with me, sow!” he shouts, grinning through bloody teeth.
