I regret.
I regret trusting Bella’s stubborn fire to protect her.
I regret underestimating Irina’s desperation.
And I regret, most of all, thinking I could ever watch Bella walk into a trap without tearing the whole fucking world apart to get her back.
47
Bella
Fingers dig into my arms—bruising, savage. I barely have time to scream before I’m hauled backward, off balance.
The world blurs.
The car door yanks open. Windows tinted so dark they look solid.
A grunt. A shove.
I’m thrown inside like luggage, my shoulder slamming into the seat, then the floor. Pain bursts across my ribs.
No, no, no, no, fucking no!
The door slams behind me with a final metallicclang.
I twist, kicking out, but a boot pins my legs down hard. I thrash, fighting, but there are too many hands—grabbing, tearing, forcing my arms behind my back.
Plastic bites into my wrists, cruel and fast.
“Don’t move, bitch!” A zip tie bites into my wrists, yanking my arms back and up. Plastic digs deep into my skin as they anchormy hands to the metal frame of the seat, stretched so tight it wrenches my shoulders.
Too tight. Way too tight.
Blood stops moving. My fingers tingle, then go numb.
I yank instinctively, but the plastic only digs deeper, slicing into my skin like a promise: you’re not getting out.
This was not the plan.
The plan was stupidly simple: meet Irina, hear her demands, protect my siblings, maybe run. Just until I figured something out. Just until Julian and Lila were safe.
The plan was never to end up zip-tied in the back of a Dodge Charger with four men who smell like gunpowder and expensive cologne.
“I’m gonna fucking kill her!” The man next to me hisses through clenched teeth, clutching his leg where my bullet found its mark. His ski mask is pushed up to his forehead, revealing a face twisted in pain and fury.
“She fucking shot me.” His accent is thick, his eyes fever-bright.
Before I can react, his hand flashes out—a blur of rage—and slams into the side of my head.
Pain detonates behind my eyes. I crumple sideways, cheek scraping against the torn leather seat, vision exploding into white noise.
Another shove—harder—rocks me against the car door. The handle jabs into my ribs, stealing what little breath I have left.
“Fuckingsuka,” he spits, grabbing a fistful of my jacket and yanking me upright just to shove me down again like I’m some broken doll he can toss around.
A hand snaps out—grabbing his wrist, shoving him back.
“Dostatochno!Enough,” another man snarls, voice sharp with panic.
