Isolated. Deliberately so.
I tested the bars anyway, pushing against them with all my strength. They didn't budge.
The door was solid oak, the lock heavy and old-fashioned. I tried the handle, knowing it was pointless. Locked from the outside, no keyhole on my side.
I searched the room methodically, looking for anything I could use as a weapon. The wardrobe was empty. The vanity drawers held nothing but dust. The fireplace tools were gone—removed, probably, for exactly this reason.
Nothing. I had nothing.
I sat down on the edge of the bed, fighting the despair that threatened to overwhelm me.
Think. You're a psychologist. You've spent years learning how people work. Use it.
Whoever was coming to see me—this "boss"—I needed to be ready. Needed to understand him, find his weaknesses, figure out how to survive until Rodion found me.
Because he would find me. I had to believe that.
I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Counting each breath, slowing my heart rate, pushing back the fear until it was manageable.
Whatever happened next, I would face it with clear eyes.
I would not break.
***
The door opened an hour later.
I'd been expecting the thick-necked man, or one of the other guards. Instead, the man who walked in was different. Younger. Better dressed. And far more dangerous.
He was handsome in the way predators were sometimes handsome—sharp features, dark hair swept back from his face, a body that moved with easy, athletic grace. His suit was expensive, his shoes polished, his watch catching the light as he closed the door behind him.
But his eyes were wrong. Dark and flat, like stones at the bottom of a river. The eyes of someone who looked at other people and saw only objects to be used.
"Mrs. Rysev." He smiled, showing perfect white teeth. "Or may I call you Keira? Given our history, I think we can dispense with formalities."
"We don't have a history."
"Don't we?" He moved further into the room, circling me like a shark circling prey. "Your father and I had an arrangement. Your uncle was the intermediary. You were promised to me before you ever met Rodion Rysev."
Branko Petrovic. It had to be. The son of Milos, the heir to the trafficking empire that had tried to buy me.
"Arrangements made without my consent aren't binding," I said, keeping my voice steady. "I'm not property to be traded."
"Aren't you?" He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell his cologne—something expensive and sharp. "Your father certainly thought so. Your uncle did too. The only person who seems confused about your status is you."
"And my husband."
Something flickered in his eyes. Anger, quickly suppressed. "Your husband is a thief. He took what was mine. But that's going to be corrected tonight."
"He'll come for me."
"I'm counting on it." Branko smiled again, but there was no warmth in it. "In fact, I've made it quite easy for him to find us. Breadcrumbs, you might say. A trail leading right to this door."
A trap. This whole thing was a trap.
"You want him to come," I said slowly, the pieces clicking into place. "This isn't about me. It's about him."
"It's about both of you. He took something that belonged to me. Now I'm going to take everything from him." He reached out and touched my face, his fingers cold against my cheek. "Starting with you."
