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My skin crawls. I freeze at the top of the landing, terror slamming into my chest like a wall.

I shake my head frantically, backing up into Zevran’s broad frame, my eyes locked on the shadows below. “I’m not going down there. No way.”

The stranger stops and looks back up the stairwell. Zevran shifts behind me, his chest pressing against my back.

“Viktoriya, this is where Scava’s—”

“I’m not going down into another basement!” My voice rises to an outright shriek.

“Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t think.” Zevran catches my shoulders, spinning me around to face him. He cups my jaw, forcing my eyes up to meet his pale gaze. In a low, steady murmur meant only for me, he says, “Printsessa. Look at me. There is nothing down there that is going to hurt you. It’s not a prison. It’s just where Scava keeps his surgical setup. You need a cast on that wrist so you stop suffering. Scava has a terrible personality, but he’s the best there is.”

“Heard that.” The man’s voice echoes up from the shadows.

Zevran ignores him, his thumb stroking gently over my cheekbone. I feel a dizzying, dangerous tug in my chest as I stare up into his eyes. I know I shouldn’t trust a single word that comes out of a kidnapper’s mouth, but his gentle words cut through my panic.

“You don’t want to sit for six hours in a public waiting room,” Zevran coaxes softly. “Thirty minutes down here, and we’ll be done. We’ll be right back on the road.”

I do want a hospital, but it’s painfully obvious I’m not getting one. It’s this underground clinic or suffering with a broken bone. The thought of Troy grabbing hold of my unset wrist and twisting it sends a shudder of absolute horror down my spine.

My good hand snags the lapel of Zevran’s jacket, clinging to him like a lifeline. “Promise that you won’t leave me down there.”

Zevran’s other hand comes up to cover mine, warm and solid.

“You and I are leaving this house together,” he promises softly. “A little trust, please. I gave you my cinnamon roll. Do you really think I’d give you my cinnamon roll and then abandon you in a dark basement?”

A small smile touches my lips despite the terror. He did give me his cinnamon roll.

I look down into the stairwell, raising my voice slightly. “What’s your name?”

“Lorenzo Scava. Are you coming down or not?”

I guess I’m going down.

The basement is nothing like the filthy dungeon I was kept in, though that doesn’t make me like it any better. That one smelled of unwashed bodies and fear. This one smells of antiseptic, and the concrete floor is built with sloped drainage grates. Stainless-steel tables take up the center of the room, flanked by glass cabinets filled with vials and surgical tools. Medical supplies are stacked with neat precision.

I stick so close to Zevran’s side I’m practically tucked into his jacket.

Lorenzo walks over to a cabinet without another word and snaps a pair of black latex gloves over his hands. He’s not wearing scrubs or a coat. Just a fitted black T-shirt that leaves the dense black ink climbing up his neck and arms on full display. He looks like a man who inflicts violence for a living, not one who heals it.

“Sit,” Lorenzo mutters, nodding to an adjustable steel examination table.

I stare doubtfully at the cold metal, and then at Zevran.

Zevran places his large hands gently around my waist, lifting me effortlessly and setting me down on the edge. A subtle, physical reminder that he’s in control here.

“Show me,” Lorenzo demands, stepping into my space.

I carefully pull back my sleeve, revealing the ghastly, purpling joint.

Lorenzo looks almost impressed by the damage. I really don’t want my injuries impressing an underground mob doctor.

He turns away, rummaging through a glass case, and returns holding a small metal kidney dish. “Take these.”

I look down at two unmarked pills resting in the stainless-steel pan. “You’re an actual doctor, right?”

“Sure. Why not,” he deadpans.

His utter lack of bedside manner does not inspire confidence.