My pulse thrums in my ears.
The man holding my wrist shifts his grip, twisting my arm behind my back and dragging me closer to the middle of the long table. My feet stumble over the rug, heels catching. I struggle harder.
“Stop it. What are you doing? Let me go!”
He laughs again, a cruel, delighted sound.
“Little boss wife,” he murmurs in broken English, “do not listen.”
Other enforcers stand along the walls now, forming a loose perimeter. No one intervenes. No one objects. This is not chaos. This is something they recognize.
Maybe punishment.
Realization hits like a punch. Gustav is gone. The other women have been allowed to leave. I am the only woman left in this room.
This is fucked up.
Anger overrides fear for one wild heartbeat. I rear back and spit in the face of the man restraining me.
He swears, wiping his cheek, his grip tightening hard enough to bruise. He shoves me toward the table and I fall into it, my palm sliding on a dirty plate.
I spin around, desperate, looking for any way out. The big enforcer’s belt snaps through the air and cracks across my cheek before I can move.
White pain explodes along my face. My ears ring. I taste copper.
The next strike slams across my shoulders. The air leaves my lungs in a sharp cry.
Instinct kicks in and I scramble onto the table to escape the leather’s strikes, palms slipping against spilled vodka and sauce. Plates and glasses topple. Silverware clatters. I crawl awkwardly over dishes, trying to get to the far end, to the door, to anywhere that is not here.
The room fills with laughter and jeers. They make comments in Russian, some words familiar enough that I catch: woman, stupid, American.
I keep crawling. Hands and knees. My dress rides up my thighs, but I don’t care. Another lash bites into my back. Then another. I choke down a cry and keep moving, fingers scraping against the wood.
I reach the edge of the table and swing one leg down, ready to jump.
The heavy door opens.
A cold whoosh of air rushes in from the outside.
Chapter 20
Peighton
Gustav’s broad shoulders fill the space. Petyr steps in behind him, composed but tense, eyes scanning the room.
My body sags in relief before I can stop it. I sniff and try to get off the table, but glasses slide, plates tip, and my heel slips. Before I can move, Gustav lifts one hand in a simple gesture.
Stop.
I stop. Obey instantly. Even my lungs freeze.
Gustav steps forward with a slow, cold swagger that chills me more than the belt had. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders loose. Head tilted slightly, studying me like I’m an enemy he isn’t sure whether to off.
Not a single man speaks.
I flatten my dress, wiping my shaking palms against the fabric. My hair is a mess. My cheek throbs where the leather struck. Itry to tuck loose strands behind my ears, but my fingers tremble too much to manage anything. Confusion tangles with dread.
Why is he looking at me like that?
