Page 26

ZOYA

V oices dragged me from the depths of sleep—sharp, angry, and far too close.

I didn’t recognize the first voice. It was deep, masculine, and radiated with anger and power. I had no idea who it was, or why they were pissed, but that voice demanded respect in a way that even made me ready to cower and give in to whatever it was they were demanding.

It was met with another voice, one that didn’t back down. The second voice was just as strong, just as angry, and backed with the same power and determination. It was a voice that I would recognize anywhere.

Roman.

My head was foggy. I could hear the voices, but I couldn’t understand them. It was like my brain was getting all the data but just couldn’t make sense of it.

I tried to concentrate and was met with a sharp pain stabbing through my temples. The entire world seemed to tilt on its axis as I opened my eyes and blinked.

It took a few minutes for the world to come into focus. And I still didn’t understand. I was in a bedroom; one I’d never been in before.

At first, I thought it was maybe a hotel room.

It was tastefully decorated but lacked any personal touches.

There were no photos, no paintings on the walls.

And the thick curtains over the window looked luxurious, their color a deep oxblood, not the nameless inoffensive beige that finer hotel rooms preferred, or the stain-hiding patterns in cheaper rooms.

No, this had to be someone’s home. A guest room maybe?

Sunlight shone around the top and bottom edges of those thick, heavy curtains.

And I wasn’t sure if it was to keep the light out—which, given the way my head pounded I was eternally grateful for—or if it was to make sure I couldn’t tell where I was.

Next to the bed, there was a table with a pitcher of water and a single glass covered in condensation. And there was a water ring on the deep mahogany tabletop. It had been there for quite a while.

How long had I been here?

I knew the water could have been drugged or poisoned. And I shouldn’t drink it, but my mouth was so dry my tongue felt thick, and my lips were on the verge of cracking.

I reached for the water just to have my hand freeze midair, stopped by the pull of the links of the handcuff that attached me to the bed.

I was restrained. Someone had taken me, put me in a lavish bedroom. And chained me to the bed.

No, not someone.

Roman.

But where was I? This wasn’t his room, it wasn’t his bed. It didn’t smell like him, didn’t have the same dark wood and rich, navy blue tones. Whoever had decorated this room preferred jewel-toned reds and creams.

It was beautiful, but not Roman.

The men whose voices woke me up were still right outside the door, their words still booming. I pushed past the pain and struggled through the fog to see if I could hear something useful.

Whoever Roman was talking to was pissed. He spoke mostly English but swore in Russian.

The words betrayal, family, and obligation were said, over and over.

My eyelids drooped. Sleep pulled at the edges of my mind, but I refused to give in to it. Instead, I sat up.

It was awkward with one hand cuffed and the other tightly bandaged.

It took several minutes of shimmying and head-piercing movements that made my stomach roll, but finally I was able to sit up.

With my back pressed against the headboard, I gingerly reached across my body with my injured arm and snagged the glass of water.

It was cool, not cold, but I didn’t care. It was the best thing I had ever tasted. I drained it and then refilled it and drained it again. With every gulp of water, the haze cleared a little more. There was still an icepick stabbing through my temples, but a much smaller, sharper icepick.

“You’re not listening to me,” Roman said, irritation coloring words that I was finally coherent enough to understand.

“I am listening,” the other man snapped. “You’re delusional. And have forgotten where your loyalties should lie.”

“You had no right to restrain her,” Roman yelled. The rage in his words made my heart beat faster.

Was he actually defending me? Fighting for me?

Had anyone ever defended me before?

I didn’t think so, not since that one nanny who my father had killed for suggesting she knew better about how to raise a little girl.

“I don’t care,” Roman said again. “She is mine. You had no right to have her restrained, no right to her now, or ever.”

Had Roman been the one to find me? Did he save me?

Or was this an “out of the frying pan and into the fire” situation?

Just because he was defending me to someone else didn’t change a thing. I had no idea what he was planning on doing with me. When two rabid street dogs fought over a cat, the cat didn’t want either one to win.

“I had every right. You insisted on bringing that murderous woman here. Into my home, around my family.” The other man matched Roman’s anger.

They sounded so similar, it was a little unnerving.

My stomach was in knots. I strained to listen. Who did Roman betray? And how? Why? What did I have to do with that betrayal?

I didn’t know Roman very well, but everything about him screamed loyalty was the most important value to him. What could make him betray someone?

The shouting died down into hushed, tense tones.

I knew they were still there, but I couldn’t make out their words.

I let my eyes close again as I relaxed back into the surprisingly plush bedding.

With my eyes closed, I tried to listen, tried to pick up what they were saying, but I couldn’t. It was like their words were just out of reach.

So I switched my focus to trying to remember what happened.

I remembered being taken. I remembered Mateo hitting me over and over for refusing to log in to my bank account for him to transfer my money.

Then he had left after reopening the wound on my head.

I was in and out for a while.

Blissful nothing, then agonizing pain.

When Mateo came back, his eyes were wild and his pupils were wide, almost swallowing his irises completely. His skin was sweaty, even though it was so cold in that room.

Then there was the way he talked. His words slurred together, but they didn’t slow down like he was drunk. They sped up like he couldn’t get the words out of his mouth fast enough, so his tongue and teeth tripped over them.

He paced around screaming at me for bleeding on his floors. And how I was doing it on purpose. Then he started blaming me for his men dying, blaming me for putting him in that position.

Over and over he would scream about how it was all my fault. And if I had just done what I was told, then he’d already be gone, and the Russians would have no idea where to find him. They would be my problem.

Mateo swung the gun he was holding around wildly as he gestured with his other hand. His finger was still balanced on the trigger as he spoke and when he got more animated, his grip tightened.

The sudden spray of bullets went wide, one digging itself into my flesh.

The motherfucker shot me.

I didn’t think he meant to.

The way he looked at the gun, as if shocked it had fired, would have been comical if the bullet hadn’t winged my arm.

Mateo actually blamed me for that, too. How dare I get shot by him? I should have gotten out of the way of the bullet.

The fact that he had left me tied up and bleeding on the floor was completely irrelevant.

Everything went hazy after that.

Nothing but red-hot pain surrounded by the frigid chill of blood loss that would soon lead to death.

The only other thing I remembered was seeing blue eyes, eyes that reminded me of the sky in Moscow right after it snowed, when the clouds cleared and the world felt fresh and new. And a blanket of sparkling ice covered all the sins and depravity that soaked the ground.

That beautiful blue was the last thing I saw before the darkness took me.

I was so lost in thought, I barely noticed when the talking outside my door stopped completely.

It wasn’t until the door opened that I was back in the present moment. My stomach clenched as I waited for Roman to come in.

“Are you awake?” a soft feminine voice asked.

“Yes,” I answered in the same soft tone.

It wasn’t Roman. And that was disappointing, Two women walked into the room, one carrying a steaming black bowl and the other with a pile of folded clothes in her hands.

Behind them was a man I didn’t recognize.

He was tall, a scar running down his face and the way he looked at me—with a mix of interest and hatred—made my skin crawl.

“Who—”

“I’m Samara,” the one with the bowl said. “And this is Nadia.”

My eyes flicked behind them, hoping Roman was going to follow them in, but he was gone. A strange pang of disappointment shot through me.

“We are here to help get you cleaned up. And changed,” Nadia said, stepping forward and putting the clothes down on an armchair near the bed.

She looked at the pitcher of water sitting in a puddle of condensation and rolled her eyes as she picked it up and grabbed a small dry towel to place under it.

“Those men of ours—animals,” she said, and Samara gave a laugh of agreement, as she set the bowl of steaming water down and picked up the washcloth that was inside.

“Under normal circumstances, we would let you take a shower, but there’s nothing normal about these circumstances. And you shouldn’t get your bandages wet,” she said, and I nodded, not sure what else to say.

The scarred man who came with them stood at the foot of the bed, his thick arms crossed over his chest as he stared at me.

“You can go,” Samara said, leveling him with a look.

“I’ve been ordered to not let you out of my sight.”

“No, you weren’t,” Nadia said, facing the man. “You were ordered to stay with us. You can do that right outside that door.”

“No—”

“That was not a question,” Samara snapped. “We will call you back in if we need your assistance.”

“It’s not safe,” he grunted.

“There are two of us. And one of her. And she was almost dead two hours ago. We’ll be fine.”

“If your husband finds out that I let you—” he growled, making himself bigger. He was impressively intimidating, but Samara and Nadia didn’t back down at all.

“You let us deal with our husbands,” Nadia said dismissively.

“Out, now. We’ll bring you back in when she is decent.”

Again, these were people who didn’t know me, who I had never had a conversation with even, and they were sticking up for me for something as simple and important as my modesty.

Most people wouldn’t have thought twice.

Tears burned behind my eyes as I realized how lonely I’d been when some simple act of kindness meant so much.

The second the door closed, Nadia came over to me with a silver key in her hand. “Please, do not prove the guard right. I’d never hear the end of it.”

“Me either,” Samara said.

“I won’t do anything. I’m not sure I could even if I wanted to,” I admitted, feeling small.

“That’s what we figured.” Samara nodded as Nadia unlocked the handcuff. “If you tried something, you wouldn’t get very far. And you would make Roman’s life a lot harder. I like Roman. Don’t make this worse for him.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.

“You’re lucky,” Nadia added. “They almost didn’t get to you in time. If they were a few minutes later, or if that room wasn’t so cold…”

Her words trailed off, but I knew what she meant. I knew how close to death I was.

The women didn’t really talk. They focused on their task as they helped me strip out of the dirty clothes, the dried blood making the fabrics stick to my skin except where they’d been cut away to reach my bullet wound.

Samara was gentle with the washcloth, the water warm and fragrant, smelling of vanilla and brown sugar.

“Since you can’t have a shower, I added a little bit of body wash to the water, thinking it would help wash away the dirt and God only knows what else,” Nadia said.

“Thank you,” I said.

When I was about as clean as I was going to get without a showerhead or a tub, the girls helped me get dressed in a pair of warm and cozy sweatpants and the softest sweater I had ever worn.

“I’m sorry,” Nadia said, giving me a sad smile. “We have to put this back on, at least for now.”

She held up the handcuff. And I nodded, understanding.

There wasn’t a choice. Even if I had the strength to fight, I didn’t know what I was fighting for anymore. I was a prisoner. And until I got my strength back, or Roman came for me, I needed to behave.

“Where am I?” I asked, getting comfortable on the bed before offering my wrist for the cuff.

“You’re safe, that is all that matters,” Samara said, shaking her head.

Safe.

That word was so loaded and so meaningless at the same time.

Safe from what? Safe from whom?

Generally, someone who was safe wasn’t handcuffed to a bed. Someone who was safe wasn’t being held prisoner for God only knew what purpose.

Roman defending me from whomever he was talking to earlier didn’t change the fact that they didn’t want me here. What would they do to make me disappear?

I didn’t understand what Roman intended to do with me. Was I safe from him, or because of him?

There was no actual way for me to find out, not while chained to this bed.

The girls both gave me a soft smile as they left. One holding the bowl of now murky, rust-tinged water. And the other carrying my dirty clothes that were beyond salvation.

“Someone will be by to check on you. And probably feed you in a while,” Nadia said before she closed the door.

When they left, the silence stretched unbearably.

I couldn’t hear anyone talking, couldn’t pick up on any sounds of wildlife or cars or anything outside. There was absolute silence, not giving me any hint of where I might be.

With nothing better to do, I lay back against the pillows, exhaustion settling into my bones and begging me to sleep, to rest, to heal.

I closed my eyes and tried to give in to the darkness of sleep, but it didn’t come.

My body was begging for rest, but my mind was racing too fast. Not about where I was or plans to escape. I wasn’t even thinking about how to get my revenge on Mateo, or whatever was left of Los Infideles .

I was thinking about him.

Roman.

Where had he brought me? Why? What was he going to do with me now that I was chained to a bed with nowhere to go?

He rescued me. I was sure of it. I was also fairly certain that he had killed Mateo for me.

Then there was how he argued with that angry man outside of the door. He defended me. He was trying to protect me.

But why?

He had me. There was no denying it. I was trapped.

But now that he had me... what was he going to do with me?