"They were going to rape you, torture you, and sell you to the highest bidder. So yes. I killed them just like that."
She flinches, but doesn't argue. Just stares out the window at the passing lights.
"Where are you taking me?" she asks quietly.
"My place. You'll stay there until we find your sister."
"I can’t— You can't just—"
I pull over suddenly enough that she gasps. We're on a back street behind the Korolyov Hotel, empty except for the glow of the Strip that bleeds around the building. I turn to face her.
"Listen carefully, Laney," I say, keeping my voice low and even. "You walked into my city asking questions about missing girls. You drew attention from people who would happily add you to their collection. The only reason you're not zip-tied in the back of an Albanian van right now is because I stepped in."
"Why?" she whispers.
"Because you're mine now." The words land between us, heavy and final.
She stares at me. "I'm not—"
"You are." I reach out and cup her face, the heel of my hand covering the red marks on her throat. Bruises are forming where that piece of shit touched her. Rage pulses through me again, hot and possessive. "From the moment I saw you on my casino's security footage, you became my responsibility. My problem. Mine. And I protect what's mine."
"I don't belong to you." She says it like it’s a fact, but the breathless quality of her voice tells me it’s not quite true, even if she doesn’t know it yet.
"Maybe." I let my hand drop. "But you will."
I put the car back in drive and head to the underground parking beneath the hotel. She doesn't argue. Doesn't try to run when I pull into my parking space. Just sits there, hands folded in her lap, breathing too fast.
"I should have called the police," she mutters when I open her door for her.
"I’m guessing you already tried them." People go missing all the time in Las Vegas, most of them turn up hungover and only a little worse for wear a few days later. The police don’t havecapacity to search for every drunk tourist that gets reported as missing, and unfortunately, that means legitimately missing people get missed too.
"How can I trust you?"
I lean down, close enough that she can feel my breath on her face. "Because you want to find your sister more than you want to be safe. And you know I'm your best chance."
She swallows. "I’m coming with you."
I blink once, slowly, her words not quite lining up in my brain. "What do you mean?" I ask, because she can’t possibly think I’m going to take her to the address in Henderson. Can she?
"To the place the guy in the alley told you about before you shot him in the head," she says, her sudden spark of attitude sending a warmth through me I’m not used to feeling.
"No," I state as plainly as possible. "It’s dangerous, and you have proven you are reckless with your safety."
"I don’t care," she argues back, her voice measured but doing nothing to disguise her frustration. "I’m not getting out of this car. I’m going with you."
Laney
Yakov stares at me for a long moment, his jaw tight, those dark eyes calculating. I can practically see him running through scenarios in his head. How to get me out of the car, how to lock me somewhere safe, how to handle the problem I've become.
But I meant what I said. I'm not getting out of this car.
"You're not coming," he says finally, his accent thicker when he's frustrated. Russian, I think, though I'm not sure. "It's too dangerous."
"My sister is there. In that warehouse. Maybe. Probably." My hands are shaking, so I clench them into fists in my lap. "I've spent a week doing nothing while she's been... while she's been wherever she is. I'm not sitting in some hotel room while you go find her without me."
"You'll be a liability."
"She is my sister."
