His expression doesn't change. "You'll see." He sits back and looks forward.
"That's not an answer," I point out.
He turns and has a half grin. "I don't have to answer you. Sit back and enjoy the ride. It's going to take a bit to get there."
"I have work," I remind him, panicking.
"Shut up and enjoy the ride," he warns.
I decide it's best if I do what he says. So I turn toward the window, watching the city pass until the car turns onto a road I don't recognize. I start counting seconds between turns, mapping out the drive in my head.
"This is where the scenery ends," Mikhail states.
I turn toward him, and before I can react, black fabric slides over my head. Something cold presses to the back of my neck. There's a loud pop, and shock hits like my body has been hijacked. Every muscle seizes at once as if a switch has been flipped, and I'm no longer in control of my own nerves.
Pain spreads everywhere, deep and blinding, ripping through me from the inside out while my jaw locks and my breath tears out of my chest in a sound I don't recognize as my own. I don't pass out, but I wish I would. Consciousness becomes a cruel thing when all I can do is feel my limbs go rigid and useless, my spine bowing as if it's being crushed from both ends.
My thoughts fracture into static, time stutters, and for a few endless seconds, there's nothing but violent electricity and the humiliating knowledge that my body has betrayed me completely. It leaves me aware but utterly powerless until the current finally cuts and I'm left shaking in its aftermath, seeing nothing but black.
Russian is spoken, only further confusing my senses. I fall limp in the seat, unable to hold my own body in a sitting position. I try to speak, but words only come out mumbled.
Mikhail's voice nears my ear. He states, "What you're feeling is temporary. For now."
My muscles tremble uncontrollably, each one misfiring like a faulty wire that hasn't realized the current has stopped. I try to straighten, to reclaim even a fraction of dignity, but my body refuses to obey. My jaw aches from clenching. My lungs burn from the breath that was ripped out of me.
"I told you not to play with the forbidden pussy," Mikhail deadpans.
The calm in his voice unsettles me more than the shock. I stay limp, weak, and confused. When the SUV stops, I don't even register it.
The door opens. Hands grab under my arms. I'm dragged upright. My shoes scrape against the pavement, then gravel crunches. A faint stench of damp metal, oil, and something industrial seeps through the black cloth.
A door creaks open. I'm dragged forward, and the temperature drops.
My vision swims beneath the black hood. My wrists get yanked behind me and secured with zip ties that dig into my skin. Panic builds higher, and I remind myself to breathe, but even that is a chore.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Control what you can.
Several sets of footsteps echo around me. Russian words explode in sharp bursts, their tone aggressive even if I can't catch every phrase. I hear my name once. Then Ivanov.
My senses slowly begin to return. Each muscle tries to reclaim its strength.
Someone pushes me down into a chair. My knees hit first, then my shoulders slam against a hard backrest. Cold metal circles my ankles. I test the restraints, but there's no leeway.
The hood gets ripped off. Bright overhead light burns my vision white. I blink rapidly, forcing clarity back into place, but things are still blurry.
Through the haze, I realize the room is concrete with no windows. There's one steel door. Two men stand near it, broad and silent. Another leans against the far wall. All wear suits as if they're high-powered businessmen.
One of them comes closer and steps in front of me. I blink over and over until my vision clears. A new chill runs down my spine.
Adrian Ivanov.
He's immaculate in his tailored charcoal suit. His eyes tighten with contained rage.
Controlled fury is always more dangerous.
