Page 23

The van ride is brutal.

I’m tossed like cargo, every bump in the road slamming my shoulder into metal. My wrists burn from the restraints—plastic zip ties cutting into skin gone raw. A gag digs into my mouth, too tight, stiff with the taste of dirt and rubber. I can’t breathe properly. My ribs ache from how hard I’m trying not to panic.

The blindfold makes it worse. It turns the world into a void. No up, no down, just motion and muffled voices. I hear the driver laughing. Someone in the back lights a cigarette—its acrid scent burns my nose, makes my stomach roll.

Then, like venom curling around my brain, his voice returns.

“I’m doing this for you, Elise. You’ll thank me one day.”

No. No, I won’t.

I should have known the second I saw him—should have run the other way. But blood does strange things to people. Makes you stupid. Hopeful.

He never came to help me. Never tried to protect me. He saw an opportunity, just like every man before him.

Another man who saw me as leverage . A pawn. A fucking bargaining chip in someone else’s war.

I bite down on the gag until my jaw screams.

I don’t know how long the drive lasts. It feels like hours, but time stretches out in pain, in fear, in fury. When the van finally jerks to a halt, I’m almost too numb to care. Cold air rushes in when the doors open. Hands grab me, rough and fast. I’m dragged backward, my legs too stiff to move on their own.

The blindfold comes off, and I squint against the dim light.

We’re inside a building now. Something old, crumbling. Smells like mold, old wood, piss, and something else—something coppery and sharp.

Blood.

They’ve brought me to hell.

My arms are yanked behind my back again as they force me through what used to be a lobby. There’s shattered tile beneath my feet, broken glass glinting along the floor. The wallpaper peels in long strips, and old chandeliers hang limp and dead above us.

They take me downstairs.

The basement is colder. Damper. Lit by a single bare bulb that flickers every few seconds like it’s remembering how to stay alive. The walls are unfinished concrete, wet in places. The floor is stained.

There’s a chair in the center of the room, bolted to the floor. I know immediately it’s for me.

I dig in my heels. I fight, even now, even though I know it’s useless.

A man stands in the corner.

Not just a man. The man. The one they all orbit like he has a gravitational pull.

Tall, lean, handsome in that sharp, snake-eyed kind of way. A suit too nice for this place, tie loosened like he wants to seem casual—but it’s a performance. Every inch of him screams power that’s built on other people’s screams.

This is the man who thinks he can break Kolya Sharov.

He steps forward, lips curling.

“So,” he says, voice smooth, rich with mockery. “You’re the reason the great Kolya is unraveling.”

I glare at him.

His eyes flick over me slowly, like I’m something on display.

“Tighter than I imagined,” he mutters. “Though I suppose a man like him wouldn’t settle for less.”

My stomach twists.

He gestures, and the guards shove me into the chair. I hiss as my raw wrists are bound to the arms. My legs are strapped next. Then the gag comes off.

I spit blood at his feet, and he laughs. “Oh, she’s got bite. I see why he’s so fond.”

I don’t respond.

I won’t give him the satisfaction.

He circles the chair, slow and patient, like a vulture waiting for me to rot. “You know, I almost pity you,” he says. “Almost. If you weren’t such a perfectly placed weapon.”

I look up at him. My voice comes out hoarse. “Kolya will kill you.”

His smile widens. “That’s the point, sweetheart. I want him to come. I want him to watch .”

“You think he’ll beg for me?” I ask, holding his gaze.

“I think,” he says, leaning close enough for me to smell his cologne—something synthetic and sharp—“he’ll break . Once he does, everything he’s built will follow.”

“You don’t know him,” I whisper.

He straightens. “No, but I know men like him. And they all crack eventually.”

I let out a breath, then I smile. “You’re going to regret this.”

Something flashes in his eyes, just for a second. A crack in the calm.

I cling to that, because he doesn’t know Kolya. Not the way I do.

He doesn’t know the way Kolya looks when his control slips. When something he owns is threatened. When something he wants is touched.

He doesn’t know how sharp that man’s rage can get, but he will.

He’ll know the second those doors are kicked in.

If I survive this—if Kolya comes before they rip me apart—I’m going to be the one smiling when they fall.

The moment the door slams shut, the silence becomes unbearable.

There’s no noise now. No voices. No footsteps.

Just the drip of a pipe overhead and the wild, uneven rhythm of my own heart pounding in my ears.

I sit bound to the chair, my arms screaming from the awkward angle, the straps cutting into already-bruised skin. My throat is dry, and my mouth tastes like blood and fear.

I tell myself to be strong, but my body is trembling.

The man—whoever he is—left with the confidence of someone who thinks he’s already won. I watched it in the way he moved. Heard it in the way he said Kolya’s name like it was nothing. Like Kolya was just a man.

He isn’t, and that’s the only thing keeping me sane right now.

Kolya will come.

I say it in my head like a prayer. Like a spell to keep the fear from swallowing me whole.

Kolya will come. He has to.

He saw the cameras. He must’ve seen the footage. He knows the way I left. What I walked into. He knows my blood isn’t cold enough to plot this, not really. I was desperate, confused, chasing something I thought I needed.

I didn’t know I was being played. Now I’m here. In the dark. Trapped again. Tied to another fucking chair, like I’m some object to be traded and threatened.

I don’t know what they’ll do to me before Kolya finds this place. What they’ll take. What they’ll leave behind.

My stomach twists. I don’t want to die here; but if I do, I hope it costs them everything. I hope Kolya turns this place into ash.

***

It begins with a sound like the end of the world.

The explosion hits so hard it knocks dust from the ceiling, the force rattling through the walls and slamming into my chest. The light above me flickers violently, then dies. For one breathless second, there’s nothing but silence.

Then chaos.

Shouts erupt outside the door—scrambled, panicked Russian barked between men. Footsteps pound across the floor above. Then gunfire. Short, brutal bursts, not the warning kind but the kind that ends things.

I twist in the chair, heart lodged in my throat. My hands ache from the binds, my breath stuttering as boots stomp down the hallway toward me.

Then a scream—gurgled, wet—and a body hits the floor outside the room. A second later, the door explodes inward, shattered wood flying.

I see a shadow at first, backlit by firelight and smoke. But when he steps forward, it’s like a god of wrath has descended into this rotting pit.

He’s soaked in blood—not his, I know that immediately. His eyes are wild, locked on to mine with a heat that scorches. There’s no restraint in him, no control. Just fury and vengeance given a name and a target.

His voice, when he speaks, is the coldest thing I’ve ever heard. “Get away from her.”

The two men left in the room barely manage to raise their weapons before he moves.

Kolya doesn’t shoot them clean. He doesn’t have to. He steps in close, grabbing the first by the throat and slamming him into the concrete wall with a sickening crack. A blade flashes in his hand—then blood, a scream, a gurgle—and the man drops, twitching.

The second man gets one shot off. It misses.

Kolya catches his arm, twists until it snaps. The man screams. Kolya punches him once—jaw, temple, then again—and again—until the skull caves in against the concrete. The body drops, lifeless.

Then silence again.

His chest heaves. Blood drips from his blade, from his knuckles. His shoulders shake, but not from exhaustion—from restraint.

Then his eyes meet mine.

“Elise,” he says, and it’s the only soft thing in the room.

I don’t speak. I can’t. My mouth is too dry, my body too frozen. I’ve never seen him like this. Not even close.

He kneels beside me, hands still slick, but they’re careful when they reach for the rope around my wrists.

“Did they touch you?” he asks. Low. Measured.

“No,” I manage to whisper. “Not like that.”

His jaw clenches. His hands tremble as he cuts me free, but he says nothing. Just cups the back of my head once I’m loose, pulling my face to his chest for one second—one stolen second of shelter—before he’s rising again.

Footsteps echo down the hallway.

My father steps into the doorway, behind Kolya.

“Wait—” I start, but too late.

Kolya turns.

There’s no hesitation. No words. Just a single shot. Clean. Precise. Right between the eyes.

My father drops like a marionette with its strings cut.

I gasp, flinching, but Kolya doesn’t even blink.

“He set this up,” he says simply. “He knew what they would do to you.”

I nod, even as my stomach turns. Even as tears sting my eyes, not because I grieve him, but because I don’t .

Kolya grabs my hand. “We’re leaving.”

He pulls me through the carnage. Blood slicks the floor in dark pools. Bodies crumpled in doorways and down halls. The smell is thick, metallic, choking.

When we step out into the night, the air hits me like ice. Fresh. Clean. I gulp it in.

A black SUV waits. Boris stands beside it, blood on his cheek and a fresh gash across his arm.

“You got her,” he states.

Kolya nods once.

“She alright?”

“She will be,” Kolya says.

He opens the door and lifts me inside like I weigh nothing. As he climbs in after me, I glance back at the building—flames licking the roofline, smoke billowing into the stars.

That place was meant to break me, but Kolya burned it to the ground instead.

The SUV hums beneath us, a low, steady rhythm that should feel soothing. But my body’s still trembling.

I sit stiff in the seat, knees drawn to my chest, arms wrapped tight around them. My hair sticks to my face in damp, tangled strands, and there’s blood smeared across my shirt—not mine, but I don’t know whose. Maybe that’s worse. My whole body aches, and my wrists sting where the zip ties cut into my skin.

Then it’s just us.

The doors shut. Boris says something low to the driver and disappears. It’s just Kolya now, breathing heavily across from me, his broad chest rising and falling beneath his ruined black shirt. Blood paints his skin, his hands, the blade still tucked into the waistband of his trousers. It’s not that that makes my heart hammer harder.

It’s the way he looks at me.

Like I’m here. Safe. His.

He moves slowly at first. As if he knows that if he rushes, I might shatter. He reaches for my wrists.

I flinch—an instinct I hate, one I can’t suppress.

Kolya doesn’t comment. He just takes my hands in his, turning them over to inspect the damage. The pads of his fingers glide over my raw skin, his touch so gentle it doesn’t feel real. It feels like the calm after the hurricane, and that somehow makes it harder to bear.

The tears start before I realize they’ve come. I don’t sob. I just sit there, silently shaking, wetness sliding down my cheeks.

He unties the last of the frayed restraints, working with careful precision. His hands are still stained from the men he killed minutes ago—some of it already drying under his fingernails. And still, his touch is tender.

Once I’m free, I let my hands fall into my lap. They tremble. I stare at them like they belong to someone else. Then I feel his gaze again, and I look up.

His eyes are molten. Still furious, still wild—but there’s something else now. Something wounded underneath it all. Like watching me like this is undoing him.

“Why?” I whisper.

My voice is raw, like I haven’t spoken in hours. I haven’t.

Kolya’s brow furrows.

“Why would you come for me?” I ask again, louder this time. “After everything I’ve done. After I left .”

His jaw tics. “You’re mine.”

The words snap like a whip in the quiet. Hard. Brutal. Undeniable.

I should fight him on it. Throw it back in his face. Tell him I don’t belong to anyone.

Except, I wanted him to come. I called for him.

I prayed he would find me in that darkness, and he did. Not just with bullets, not just with fury—but with the kind of force that says nothing will touch what’s mine and live to tell it.

My body gives in first. I slide forward, out of the corner, and into his lap without a word. He catches me instantly, arms folding around my waist as I curl against his chest. His warmth seeps into me. His scent—smoke, leather, blood, and something that’s just him —fills my lungs.

I bury my face against his throat. He exhales, one long breath, like maybe he was holding it the whole time.

“I was so scared,” I whisper into his skin.

“I know.”

“They were going to hurt me.”

“I know.”

His grip tightens around me. His arms are steel now, wrapped around my back, locking me in place like the world might try to take me again.

“It’s over,” he says, voice low. Dangerous. “I won’t let anyone touch you again.”

I believe him. Not just because of the way he speaks it, but because of what I saw. The carnage. The way he moved through men like they were paper. The look in his eyes when he saw me in that chair.

I reach up and fist my hand in his shirt, clutching hard. I don’t even realize I’m crying again until my breath hitches. This time, I let it happen.

I let myself fall apart in his arms. He doesn’t rush me; he just holds me through it, his fingers stroking my hair, his cheek resting against the top of my head.

I know this man is still dangerous. Still cruel. Still wrapped in blood and power and fire.

I don’t know how long we sit there. Minutes, maybe. Hours. Time stopped making sense back in that basement.

Kolya says nothing else, and I’m grateful for that. Words would only shatter whatever fragile thread is holding me together. Instead, he lets me curl into him, pressed so tightly to his chest I can feel his heart—steady, thunderous, human.

My fingers knot tighter into his shirt, and I hate that it grounds me. Hate that the scent of blood, smoke, and him makes me feel safer than I’ve felt in days. It shouldn’t be this way. He shouldn’t be the one I crave when the world falls apart.

I need him like air.

Eventually, the SUV slows, pulling into a private underground garage. The rumble of the engine dies, leaving a cavernous silence behind.

Kolya shifts, one arm sliding beneath my legs. I start to protest—some stubborn instinct refusing to let him carry me—but my body is too sore, too heavy. I let him lift me, his grip firm and careful.

He carries me through the corridor, up the stairs, until we’re back inside the mansion. Warm light spills from sconces along the hall, soft and golden. The contrast from the darkness I came from nearly undoes me again.

His steps are measured. Controlled. He kicks open the door to his bedroom with his boot.

Not mine. His. Somehow , I’m not surprised.

He sets me on the edge of the bed. My skin sinks into the thick mattress, and the sensation almost brings tears back to my eyes. He kneels to undo my shoes, his bloodied fingers moving with reverence. Then he stands, taking off his jacket—ruined, soaked through—and tosses it aside.

“Take this off,” he says, nodding to my shirt.

I hesitate. His eyes flash. “You’re covered in someone else’s blood. I’m not asking again.”

I pull it over my head with shaking hands.

Kolya doesn’t look away. His eyes track every inch of exposed skin, and for once, it doesn’t feel sexual—it feels like he’s checking . Cataloguing bruises. Damage. Making sure I’m whole.

He disappears into the bathroom and returns with a damp towel, gently wiping the grime from my skin. He’s quiet as he works, brow furrowed, jaw clenched like he’s barely containing something. Maybe rage. Maybe guilt.

Maybe both.

I breathe through the touch, letting it ground me again. “You killed him,” I whisper eventually. “My father.”

Kolya doesn’t stop. “Yes.”

“Thank you.”

That makes him pause. His eyes lift to mine, searching. Maybe for regret. Maybe for sorrow.

There’s none.

“He gave you away,” Kolya says, voice low. “He doesn’t get to call himself a father.”

“I know,” I murmur. “It just feels… strange.”

Kolya tosses the towel aside and stands straight. “You’ll feel a lot of things, love. I’ll deal with them all. One by one.”

He turns away, moving to strip off his bloodied shirt, and suddenly I’m cold without him near.

“I thought I was going to die down there,” I say softly.

His back stiffens.

“I kept waiting,” I continue, “for someone to come through that door and never let me leave.”

Kolya turns.

“I knew you’d come,” I admit. “I didn’t know if it’d be in time.”

He crosses the room in two strides and grabs my face—not rough, not gentle—just firm . His thumb brushes the curve of my cheekbone, his eyes locked on mine.

“I will always save you in time.”

Something in my chest cracks open. I lean into his hand, eyes fluttering closed.