My gaze snaps toward the side wall—
And my blood runs cold.
A man my age with blond hair and flushed cheeks is chained to a wooden cross, wrists shackled high, ankles bound. He looks half-alive. Eyes swollen. Lip split. He breathes in shallow, pained pulls.
It’s torture.
Real torture.
Ten feet from our dinner table.
I stagger back. “Who... who is that?”
Gustav doesn’t even glance at him.
“Life number two,” he grumbles, picking at his meal. “Son of a Nordic mafia boss who crossed my father. My old man’s dead now. I will correct that sin.”
My stomach churns. “Are you going to kill him?”
“Da.”
“You shouldn’t,” I blurt. “It’ll look bad, hurting another boss’ son. It could start a war.”
Everything in him changes.
His chin lifts, slowly. His gray eyes go dark.
“You question me?” he asks, voice low with warning.
My mouth dries. “I... I didn’t mean—”
A chair scrapes violently, but he doesn’t stand.
“Rule one,” he says, voice deceptively soft, “is obedience. You obey meunconditionally.”
I fold my arms, trying to look firm. And I make the mistake of rolling my eyes. Barely.
But he sees it.
He reclines into a lazy posture, wrist limp on the armrest. His tone drops to something bored, amused, maybe even cruel. He murmurs in Russian, flicking two fingers in my direction.
Two guards appear instantly at my sides.
Before I can react, they rip me from my chair.
“What! Stop! No—!”
Powerful hands tear at my clothes. Fabric rips. Fingernails scratch my skin.
I gasp, scream, claw at them, but they don’t stop until everything is gone except my bra and underwear.
I stand there. Shaking, exposed, arms wrapped over my chest, thighs clamped together, goosebumps all over, and breath hitching.
Absolutely stunned and humiliated.
Gustav’s eyes drag over me slowly, head to toe, toe to head.
For one heartbeat, something cracks. His jaw flexes. His eyelids flicker. A muscle pulls tight beneath his cheekbone.
