Page 115 of Cruel Obsession

The bald one grins and says something to the others in rapid Russian. They smirk. He lunges.

I try to scream, pulling air deep into my lungs, but he reaches me before sound escapes. His hand clamps over my mouth, fingers digging into my cheeks. The pressure is precise—not enough to bruise visibly, but enough to control. Another grabs my arms, twisting them behind my back with brutal force. The lean one. His grip is iron, professional.

I struggle anyway, survival instinct overriding rational thought. I kick backward, connecting with someone’s shin. A grunt of pain rewards my effort. I thrash harder, twisting my body, trying to wrench free. My nails claw at whatever I can reach—fabric, skin, anything.

“Fucking bitch,” someone mutters.

“Hold her still,” the older man hisses.

They drag me toward the van. My feet scrape against the pavement as I try to plant myself, try to resist. It’s useless. They’re too strong, too coordinated.

“Wait! Wait!” The words come muffled against the palm over my mouth. I manage to wrench my head to the side for a second. “You don’t understand— I’m… I’m pregnant. Please!”

The bald one hesitates. Glances at the older man.

“Davai,” the older one snaps. “Keep going.”

Fresh terror floods through me. They don’t care. They know I’m pregnant and they don’t care.

“Please,” I try again, the word breaking. “Please, whatever this is about, we can—”

A sweet-smelling cloth replaces the hand over my mouth. Chloroform. The chemical recognition flashes through my mind. I try to hold my breath, pressing my lips together, but my lungs are already burning from exertion. I make the mistake of gasping when one of them twists my arm sharply, sending white-hot pain shooting through my shoulder.

The drug floods my system immediately, dulling everything around me.

No.

No, no, no!

My legs buckle. The bald one catches me, hauling me up effortlessly. I try to fight, but my limbs won’t cooperate. They feel distant, like they belong to someone else.

“That’s it,” the lean one says in English, almost conversational. “Just relax.”

“Fuck you,” I slur. Or try to. Not sure if the words come out right.

They carry me to the van. The back doors yawn open—dark interior, no windows. I see metal rings bolted to the floor. Restraints. The realization cuts through the fog of chloroform for a moment.

They’ve done this before.

This van is designed for this.

“My father,” I manage, tongue thick. “He’s sick. He needs me. Please—”

“Your father is not our concern,” the older man says flatly.

They lift me inside. The van floor is cold metal beneath me, ridged and industrial. It smells like diesel fuel and something chemical—cleaning solution maybe, or something to mask other smells. I don’t want to think about what those other smells might be.

My thoughts scatter. Arkady will be furious. The baby. My father. No one will know where I’ve gone. Dad will think I abandoned him. Arkady will think—

What will Arkady think?

The lean one climbs in beside me, efficient movements as he secures my wrists with zip ties. I try to pull away, but my body won’t respond. My fingers are numb.

“Comfortable?” he asks, mockery in his tone.

I want to spit at him. Want to scream. But the chloroform is winning, pulling me down into thick, syrupy darkness.

Through my fading vision, I hear them speaking in Russian. The language flows around me, meaningless except for two things that penetrate the growing fog: “Gavriil Laurov” and “Dubai.”