Like he senses the power inside me that surges forward, eager to put him in his place, Igor releases my shoulder and steps back, jerking his chin toward the door. “Good. Now get lost.”
Bristling at the command, at the assumption that I’ll heel like a trained dog, I make my way back through the maze of corridors, retracing my steps through the darkened hallways until I reach the blue wing.
The door to Emma’s room is silent now, and somehow, the quiet is worse than her fury.
I lean against the wall opposite her door and settle my shoulders against the wood panelling, then cross my arms over my chest. The hallway is dim and quiet, with nothing but shadows and the distant sound of footsteps somewhere below. I fish my phone from my pocket, careful to keep my movements casual and the screen angled away from view before I open the app Chase installed.
The feed flickers to life, grainy but clear enough.
Emma isn’t pounding on the door anymore, isn’t pacing or raging or plotting her revenge.
She’s slumped against it with her back pressed to the heavy wood, and her knees pulled up to her chest. Her head is buried in her hands, and her shoulders shake with silent sobs racking her whole body. The blue silk of her dress is twisted around her, bare feet are pale against the dark hardwood floor, and she looks small. Fragile. Nothing like the woman I had to wrestle in her room earlier.
All that fire, all that fury, was anger at having no control.
Now that she’s alone, it’s crumbling.
My bear whines, clawing at me to go back in there, to break down that door and pull her into my arms, holding her tightly until the shaking stops. To tell her that I’ll burn this whole operation to the ground before I let anyone touch her.
But I know I can’t.
Instead, I stand in the hallway with the phone screen glowing in my palm, watching my mate fall apart on the other side of a locked door and hating myself for every second of it.
She’s magnificent, even like this. Infuriating and brave, yet so stubborn that it makes me want to kiss her.
But these men aren’t like me. They’ll see her spirit as a challenge, something to be broken and beaten down until there’s nothing left but compliance.
If she doesn’t learn to pick her battles, she’s going to get hurt. Or worse.
On the screen, she lifts her head from her hands, wiping her eyes with the heels of her palms, and sucks in a deep breath. Even tear-streaked and exhausted, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I’m amazed that once again, there’s defiance in the set of her jaw and in the way she squares her shoulders and pushes herself up off the floor.
That’s my girl.
The crunch of tyres on gravel drifts up from somewhere below, with the sound of an engine cutting out, and car doors slamming.
A mixture of dread and excitement builds inside me. Hopefully, I can start making some progress toward getting the women out of here, and this depraved organisation out of business.
Because Kozlov is here.
8
EMMA
The silence is the worst part. I’ve got no phone, no clock, and no concept of what time it is.
I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here, but my tears have dried and left my cheeks feeling tight and sticky. The room is dark now, with just the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the window, casting shadows across the expensive furniture like prison bars.
Which I suppose this place is, at least for me.
My eyes feel raw from crying, my knuckles aching from banging on the door. All that energy wasted and what did it get me? Absolutely nothing except a pounding headache and wounded pride.
I press my forehead against my knees and try to breathe through the panic that keeps threatening to claw its way up my chest. Four days. I have four days until Saturday, until some monster pays for the privilege of owning me, and there’s not a single thing I can do about it. My thoughts turn to Jake, and I hope he’s figured out how futile it is and just runs, because the last thing I want is Kozlov making an example of him too.
One of us dying is bad enough.
A floorboard creaks in the hallway outside.
My head snaps up, heart hammering against my ribs, as I scramble backward on my hands, putting distance between myself and the door. The handle doesn’t move, but I can hear breathing now, slow and steady, just on the other side of the wood.
