"I didn't know it was an arms deal! I thought it was an exit, or maybe a—"
"You saw weapons. You saw money. You saw faces." Each word is precise, controlled. "Any one of those things is enough to get you killed."
My stomach lurches. "I won't say anything. I swear. I don't even know who any of you people are, I just—"
"It doesn't matter." He cuts me off. "Valentin doesn't trust you. His men don't trust you. And the only reason you're still breathing is because I told them you're mine."
Mine.
I ignore what that word does to me with champion-level restraint.
"I'm not—"
"You are now." He releases my hip finally, but only to pull his phone from his pocket. He glances at the screen, and something flickers across his face. Frustration? Calculation? It's gone before I can identify it. "Come with me."
"What? No. I need to—"
"You need to stay alive." He's already moving toward the door his men went through, and when I don't follow immediately, he turns back. "Walk, or I'll carry you. Your choice."
I believe him. I actually believe he'll throw me over his shoulder and haul me out of here like a sack of potatoes if I don't move.
My legs feel like jelly, but I force them to work, following him through the door and into another hallway. This one is narrower, cleaner, with carpet instead of concrete. We pass what looks like storage rooms, an office, a—
He stops in front of a door and pulls out a key card, swiping it through the reader. The lock clicks open.
"Inside."
I hesitate. Every instinct I have is screaming at me not to go into an elevator with this man, but what choice do I have? If I run, where would I even go? Back to the main part of the club where Brad is probably still waiting? Out into the city, where Valentin's men might be watching?
I step inside. A few seconds later the door opens to reveal an office.
Sleek, modern, with windows that overlook the club below. I can see the dance floor from here, the bar, the crowd of people who have no idea what just happened twenty feet below them.
The door slides shut behind me, and I hear a lock engage.
We're alone.
He moves past me to the desk, setting his phone down with careful precision. Then he just stands there, one hand braced on the polished surface, eyes fixed on me like he's trying to decide something.
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly very aware of how alone I am with this man.
"What's your name?" he asks finally, allowing his gaze to move over me.
"Florrie." My voice comes out smaller than I want it to. "Florrie Cassel."
"Florrie." He says it slowly, like he's testing how it sounds. Then he lifts his head, and those grey eyes pin me in place. "I'm Leon Dubovich."
Dubovich.
The name means nothing to me, but the way he says it like it should makes my skin prickle.
"Leon," I echo stupidly.
His mouth quirks. Not quite a smile. "Sit down, Florrie. We need to talk."
I don't sit. I can't. My legs won't cooperate, and besides, sitting feels like surrendering somehow.
"What did you mean when you said I'm yours?" I ask instead.
