I thought of Maks.
I wondered if he was standing in my absence right now, the way Sophie was standing in Katerina's. Wondering what had happened. Wondering if I was hurt. Wondering if he'd ever see me again.
The collar pressed against my pulse.
He was out there somewhere. Planning. Calculating. Being the clever fox I'd fallen in love with.
But clever hadn't saved us.
Clever had walked into a trap, had taken all the brothers to Chelsea while Anton's men breached the compound. Clever had failed, spectacularly, and now three women sat chained in a basement with nothing but each other and the thin thread of hope that someone would find them in time.
Will I ever see him again?
The question surfaced before I could stop it. Before I could build the walls I'd spent a lifetime building, the ones that protected me from wanting things too much.
I didn't know the answer.
The door opened, and painfully bright light flooded in like an assault.
I flinched—too bright, too sudden—and by the time my eyes adjusted, he was already halfway down the stairs. He descended like he was entering a dinner party. Unhurried. Composed. The particular grace of someone who had never in his life been afraid of anything in any room.
Anton Belyaev.
Had to be.
Although he was younger than I'd expected.
Forties, maybe. Handsome in that cold, carved way—high cheekbones, pale blue eyes, silver threading through dark hair at the temples. The kind of face that would look distinguished ina boardroom and terrifying in an interrogation. His smile didn't reach his eyes. I wasn't sure it was designed to.
"Ladies."
His voice was silk. English perfect, accent barely detectable—just enough to mark him as foreign, not enough to seem anything less than cultivated. He stopped at the base of the stairs, surveying us with the particular attention of someone assessing assets rather than people.
"I apologize for the accommodations."
The words should have been ridiculous. Laughable, even—this basement prison with its concrete walls and bare bulb and chains bolted to pipes. But he delivered them with such sincerity, such measured regret, that for a moment I almost believed he meant it.
Almost.
"I want to assure you—" He clasped his hands behind his back. A lecturer's pose. A gentleman's pose. "No harm will come to you. My supporters have . . . traditional views about women."
His eyes moved from me to Maya to Sophie, lingering on each of us with that cold assessment.
"Especially mothers."
Sophie's whole body went rigid.
I saw it happen—the particular tension that ran through her like electricity, the coiled readiness of someone about to do something reckless. Maya's hand tightened on her arm, a warning, but Sophie was already moving.
She lunged.
The chain snapped taut with a sound like a gunshot. Her fingers closed on empty air, three feet short of Anton's throat, and she collapsed forward onto her knees with a sob of rage that echoed off the cinder block walls.
Anton didn't flinch.
Didn't step back, didn't signal his guards, didn't show any indication that a desperate woman had just tried to tear out his throat. He simply watched. Patient. The particular stillness of a predator who knew its prey was already trapped.
"Your daughter is safe, as I understand." His voice hadn't changed. Still silk, still measured. "For now."
