Mara is gone.
And I don't know if I'll ever get her back.
28
MARA
Pain.
That's the first thing I'm aware of—a throbbing ache that radiates from the back of my skull, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. Each throb sends waves of nausea through me, and I have to fight the urge to vomit.
I try to move my hands to touch my head, but they won't respond. Something's wrong. I realize my wrists are bound behind me, something plastic cutting into my skin with every small movement. Zip ties, I realize distantly, and stop pulling, remembering that I read somewhere once that they get tighter the more you struggle.
My eyes feel heavy, crusted with something. I force them open, blinking against the darkness. Not complete darkness, I realize after a moment. There's light filtering in from somewhere, dim and gray, enough to make out shapes but not details.
Where am I?
The question triggers a cascade of memories, fragmented and disjointed. The penthouse. Reading on the couch. Ilyaleaving. Then... what? I was going to make tea. I walked into the kitchen and?—
Gunshots. Shouting. Dmitri's voice, cut off mid-word.
The door exploding inward.
Men in black, wearing tactical gear. I ran for the bedroom, but there were too many of them. Hands grabbing me. Something sharp pricking my neck. The world tilting sideways as my legs gave out.
And then nothing.
I force myself to focus on my surroundings, pushing through the fog in my head. I'm sitting on concrete, my back against something metal—a support beam, maybe. The air smells like rust and old oil, with an underlying scent of mildew and decay. A warehouse, I think, feeling a pained jolt in my chest at the memory of the last time I was in a place like this, with Ilya. There’s nothing arousing about what’s happening to me now. The fear is all real, with no spice of desire to make this anything but horrifying.
My shoulders ache from having my arms pulled back for an unknown amount of time. My legs are numb, pins and needles shooting through them when I try to shift position. I'm still wearing the clothes I had on—leggings and a loose t-shirt—but my feet are bare. They must have taken my shoes. The warehouse is frigidly cold, and I shiver, feeling my skin prick with goosebumps.
I test the zip ties carefully again, trying not to make noise. I can already feel that there’s no chance they’re going to give, and a sick feeling sweeps through my stomach.
A soft groan comes from somewhere to my left, and I freeze.
I'm not alone.
I turn my head slowly, ignoring the spike of pain the movement causes, and squint into the darkness. There's another figure maybe ten feet away, also tied to a support beam. As myeyes adjust, I can make out more details—long pale blonde hair, expensive clothes, a slender frame.
The woman shifts, and I hear another groan, this one more conscious, as if she’s waking up.
"Hello?" I whisper, my voice hoarse. My throat feels like sandpaper.
The figure goes still. Then, slowly, her head lifts, and even in the dim light, I recognize her.
It’s Svetlana.
For a moment, we just stare at each other. Her eyes are wide, mascara smudged beneath them, her usually perfect hair tangled and disheveled. She looks as disoriented as I feel, but when recognition dawns on her face, her expression hardens.
"You," she hisses, and there's venom in her voice. "Of course it's you."
I don't have the energy for whatever hostility she's giving off. "Where are we?"
"How should I know?" She struggles against her restraints, wincing. "This is your fault. If Ilya hadn't become obsessed with you, if you hadn't?—"
"My fault?" The accusation cuts through my fog. "I didn't ask for any of this. I didn't ask to be taken, and I sure as hell didn't ask to be here with you."
"No, you just asked to be kept like a pet in his penthouse while the rest of us dealt with the consequences of his distraction." Her voice cracks slightly. "Do you have any idea what you've done? What your presence in his life has cost me?"
