It’s the voice of Ronan Aslanov.
Chapter Thirty
Lauren
My eyelids flutter open for the first time, strugglingto adjust to the darkness of the room.
My instinct is to lunge forward, but I’m yanked back into the chair I’ve been tied to. I strain my eyes in an attempt to take in more of my surroundings.
I search desperately for a vent, a window, something that will get me out of this place, but the walls are bare—no sunlight leaking in from anywhere. The air tastes stale and metallic.
My head throbs. I think back to the last thing I can remember and immediately, dread shoots up my spine. I was putting my jacket on. Then, someone grabbed me from behind and pulled me back. A cold shiver breaks out over me, prickling along my bare arms.
This can’t be happening.
I’ve been kidnapped.
I want to bring my arms together to massage some warmth back into my skin, but the zip ties around my wrists prevent me from moving. I tug, fighting the ties, but they only indent further into my skin, reddening the area.
I wince. Somebody has tied me to this chair—my attacker, probably. My arms lie flat on the armrests, immobile, like they no longer belong to me. Somebody could saw them off and I wouldn’t even have control over that.
I can’t move.
I’m stuck here.
I kick my feet—same thing. Zip ties have been secured around my ankles, keeping them attached to the legs of the chair.
My head pounds from where they struck me. I feel a migraine start to develop. Another wince leaves my mouth.
That’s when I hear the footsteps.
A chair squeaks against the concrete floor.
I lift my gaze and see a familiar face positioning it in the middle of the room. I want to believe that he’s here to save me, but the lack of urgency suggests that he’s not.
Slowly, like he has all the time in the world, he takes a seat.
Father.
I’m not up against Ronan Aslanov, or his men.
I’m up against my own father.
Bile rises in my throat, my headache worsening as the panic starts to settle. I try again, straining against the zip ties even more, but they only cut deeper. Blood trickles down my wrist now, staining the wooden armrest. I feel tears in my eyes, but it’s not the pain from the cut that bothers me.
“You ruin every single thing you touch, don’t you?” he says, his voice composed as he watches the blood spill over the armrest.
I tear my eyes away from my wrist to face him.
He goes on. “That’s the thing with you. Always sticking your nose into things you shouldn’t and then setting yourself up for failure. The only person you end up hurting is yourself.” He tuts, sitting forward in the chair to analyze me deeper. I keep his gaze. He has me tied up, but I willnotlet him get the better of me. “You have put me in a difficult position here, daughter.”
I keep watching him, feeling my bottom lip begin to shake.
“You have always been reckless.”
I swallow hard, my heart pounding. “Let me guess, just like Mom?”
After surveying me for another moment, he reaches under his chair to take out something. I frown, not knowing what it is at first until it’s in his grasp—my purse.
