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I scream again. And when no one comes, I try and haul the chains out of the wall. But the chains don’t come free.Whoever they were originally meant for, they were meant to hold someone bigger, stronger. With a sob, I let my hands fall to my lap, the wrist shackles moving.

Made for someone bigger?

Maybe I can get my hands free.

That thought is planted deep in my head, and I ignore the pounding and the ache that comes with the light, the pain in my face from where I think someone hit me.

It gives me a moment’s pause, all the violence.

What if I lost?—

But I don’t feel wet, like I’ve been bleeding down there, and my panties aren’t stiff with anything that dried. They feel normal and my stomach’s queasy, but there’s no pain. Then again, I’ve only been pregnant once and that resulted in Sasha, so I don’t know?—

“Stop.”

I breathe in and look down. No blood on my clothes, either.

My hands shake and adrenaline fires through me. I try to work my hands out of the cuffs but cruelly they’re loose enough to move on me, but not loose enough to get off. They catch and bite into my skin and flesh where the bones meet the wrist, and even if I could dislocate every bone, I don’t think they’ll come off.

Still…

I try.

“It won’t work,” a voice says at the door, one filled with gravel and dislike. I snap up my head.

The door is open, and a man steps in, someone pulling it silently shut behind him.

He’s in an expensive suit. I’ve seen enough quality suits on Demyan, Ilya, on men in my former life—the CEOs I’ve pitched for—to see this suit cost.

It’s fitted well, and he has an unlit cigar in a beringedhand. He stands out like an aching thumb in this hovel, this run-down… whatever the hell place I’m in.

He’s younger than I thought. Even though I’m not sure what was in my head to be surprised at that. I guess unformed images of old, fat, ogre-types had been running through it.

Not a man who’s probably five to ten years older than Demyan, lean and dark blond, a man who holds the cigar like a prop, but one he’s used to holding.

And he looks at me with utter disdain.

“Who are you?” I snarl.

He laughs. “Anyone tell you—you’re pretty when you’re distressed? Even those bruises on your face accentuate the delicateness of your skin.”

“Just let me go.”

The man comes up and smiles down at me. His cologne is rich, expensive and on the edge of overbearing. “There’s no point fighting.”

“Please.” I force myself to sit calmly, to think. “Please, these chains, I… I need the bathroom.”

His face shows no emotion as he studies me.

“I don’t even know who you are.”

Delight blooms. “I’m Niko.TheNiko.”

Somehow, I stop myself from saying I don’t know who that is. A man like this wouldn’t like that.

But… Oh God. Sasha’s missing. Demyan’s marrying someone named Stefina. Ilya getting shot. All of it comes crashing down.

And in the dust of that is the thing that pulled me from unconsciousness.