Suddenly, Elijah’s voice echoes in my head. “Oh, Mommy, you used the ‘f’ word.” I can see his big, beautiful eyes—damn it, just like Leonid’s. What if he finds out he has a son? No—ourson. What then?
Friggin’ fudge nuggets.
“No, no, no,” I whisper, panic rising in my throat.
Don’t go there, Clara.
I shake my head like a madwoman, trying to dispel the thoughts.
I pace the room, my mind racing.
“Focus, dammit,” I scold myself. “One problem at a time.” But how the hell am I supposed to escape? And what’s with this setup? This isn’t how the Bratva usually treats their prisoners. I should know; I’ve seen the aftermath of their “hospitality” before.
So why am I in this fancy-ass room instead of chained to a wall somewhere?
I catch sight of myself in the full-length mirror. My dress is wrinkled, hair a mess, but otherwise, I look… fine. No bruises, no cuts.
Just what the hell is going on?
Back in the bedroom, I notice more details. A flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. A writing desk with a leather chair. Even some fancy-looking art on the walls.
“This isn’t a prison,” I mutter. “It’s a fucking holiday resort.”
Except for the lack of windows and the locked door, of course.
I eye the heavy lamp on the bedside table. Not much of a weapon, but it’ll have to do.
As I reach for it, my stomach growls loudly. How long was I out? The mini-bar tempts me, but I shake my head. Can’t risk being drugged again.
Footsteps echo from beyond the door. My heart pounds.
“Time to bleed,” I mutter, gripping the lamp tight as I position myself by the door.
Whatever Leonid has planned, he’s in for one hell of a surprise. I’m not going down without a fight.
The lock clicks. I hold my breath, muscles tensed, ready to swing.
Time seems to slow as the door begins to open. My palms are sweaty on the lamp’s base, but my grip is firm. I’ve got one shot at this.
In my mind, I see Elijah’s face again. His smile, his laugh. The way he calls me “Mommy” with such love in his voice.
“I’m coming home, baby,” I whisper. “I promise.”
The door swings wide. A figure steps in. I raise the lamp, ready to bring it crashing down.
But then a familiar voice stops me cold.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,myshka.”
The lamp slips from my grasp, clattering to the floor. Leonid stands in the doorway, a tray balanced in one hand, his eyes locked on mine.
My brows knit together as I spot it—no mistaking that underneath the tray, there’s a shotgun aimed straight at me.
“Shit,” I mutter, backing away.
He steps inside, kicking the door shut behind him. “Now, now,myshka. Is that any way to greet your host?”
“Host?” I spit. “More like captor, you piece of—”
