Ribs possibly cracked. With every breath, an invisible knife stabs my lungs. My side’s sticky, and there’s glass embedded in my forearm, a souvenir from the shattered lamp. The red coats my hands, the blood already drying to rust.
These wounds don’t matter. The damage to the safe house doesn’t matter.
Chloe does.
Rage thrashes against my sternum like a furious beast begging for release. But I keep the monster caged.
Rage is useless. Rage gets people killed. I need discipline. Precision.
Retribution.
I know just the guy to call.
I tap the screen, and after a few rings, Kirill’s angry voice erupts in my ear. “What the?—”
“She’s gone. Northern safe house is compromised. Falcones abducted her. I need you.” During the ensuing pause on the line, my pulse thunders in my ears.
“Roman will kill you for this mess.”
I can’t stop my bitter, painful laugh. “Let him, if I survive. I’m getting her back. Are you in?”
Another beat of silence. For a second, I wonder if he might say no and tell me I’m on my own.
When he finally answers, some of the pressure eases from my chest.
“We’re on our way.”
CHLOE
I rouse with a gasp. Rough burlap scrapes my face raw with every desperate breath, and my lungs expand sluggishly. My nose and lips burn.
A memory flashes through my mind. A soft cloth pressed to my face, followed by a sweet smell, and then nothing.
Chloroform. It burns on contact and makes breathing difficult.
Those romance books taught me something useful, after all.
I barely have time to register the darkness before the bag’s ripped away, yanking out strands of hair.
Light smacks my eyes like a physical blow, and pain stabs my skull.
I blink, squinting against the harsh glare from somewhere above as I sit on what I think is a metal chair. My wrists chafe from the biting ropes.
Unhurried steps echo across concrete as they head toward me. My heart speeds with every footfall.
I still can’t see where I am or who pulled the bag from my head. I blink more, trying to clear my vision. Adrenaline surges, adding to the nausea but chasing away the lingering drug-induced confusion.
My eyesight adjusts.
Concrete walls. High ceilings. A warehouse, maybe, or some kind of industrial basement. The air smells muggy and metallic, like rust and mildew and chemicals I can’t place.
I attempt to maneuver my head to identify who’s behind me, or at least how many. My body aches everywhere, my muscles screaming from being held in the same position. How long have I been here? Hours? Days? My clothes from the safehouse—Kolya’s t-shirt, my underwear—cling to my skin, damp with sweat. Dried blood lines my thigh from a scrape I don’t remember getting.
Kolya.
My heart kicks in my chest. The last time I saw him, he was fighting but outnumbered, bodies swarming him like ants. Once again, I shiver as I recall the murderous expression he wore when the men dragged me away.
His eyes promised death for anyone who touched me.
