“Carajo!” Hinto roars, fury cracking through the building like another bolt of lightning. “How did he find it? How?”
Boots pound across the concrete, fast and frantic, and the lazy, taunting energy in the room vanishes like someone flipped a switch.
Hinto’s men start moving with purpose, grabbing weapons, radios crackling, curses snapping back and forth in Spanish, their voices overlapping until the whole dealership feels like it’s vibrating.
“Move. Now. All of you.”
“Get the trucks ready.”
“Call the south gate?—”
“Leave two here,” another voice cuts in. Hinto. “No chances.”
My stomach twists.
A tall figure steps into view from behind a row of gutted cubicles, and even before I fully see his face, I know it’s him.
Hinto.
He’s devastatingly handsome, but rage ruins the illusion. His jaw is tight enough to crack teeth, eyes blazing, mouth pulled into something ugly and feral. His long hair is disheveled.
He stops a few feet from me and crouches so that we’re eye level.
“You,” he says softly, which is worse than shouting.
I shrink back, dragging my knees up toward my chest as far as the cuffs allow.
“If Baranov does anything rash,” he continues, voice almost conversational, “if he pushes me too far, I will cut that baby out of you myself.”
The words slice straight through me. A small voice in the back of my mind whispers,what has him so worried? What has Kaz gone after that isn’t me and the baby?
My hands fly to my stomach, instinctive and desperate. My whole body folding inward like I can protect what’s growing there. Terror floods me so fast that my vision blurs.
He smiles at that, satisfied, then stands and turns away.
Within seconds he’s gone, swallowed by the chaos, leaving only two guards and the echo of his threat.
Silence creeps back in, thick and suffocating. Confusion follows close behind.
Kaz wouldn’t make a mistake. He wouldn’t attack the wrong place. Hinto isn’t stupid enough to keep me where his main operations are centered, so why is Kaz there?
For one awful, heart-splitting moment, a thought slips in that I hate myself for even thinking.
What if this was never about me?
What if I was just leverage…a pawn in a war between men? It’s taken weeks, but I’ve finally been able to admit to myself that what I feel for Kazimir isn’t just lust. It’s much more.
And I’ve been starting to think he might feel the same way.
But what if all of this really is fake, and he’s not coming?
Time stretches until it stops feeling real.
At some point the storm weakens, the thunder retreating into the distance like a sulking animal, and all that’s left is the slow, steady sound of water dripping off the building’s edges. The noise echoes through the cavernous dealership, each drop exaggerated in the emptiness, like a clock ticking down toward something I can’t see.
My legs have long since gone numb beneath me. My shoulders ache from the awkward angle of the cuffs, and my throat feels raw from breathing what feels like dirty air. With a growl, my stomach rumbles; I haven’t eaten since this morning, and it's well past afternoon.
The two men guarding me have dragged over a pair of dented fold-out chairs. They sit with their boots planted wide, weapons resting across their laps, boredom etched into their faces. One scrolls through his phone. The other chews something loudly and spits into an empty corner. They look tired and annoyed, but still wired enough that every small noise makes their heads snap up.
