Page 75 of Claimed By the Boss

His eyes linger on me longer this time. I can see him mulling it over, chewing on the words like they’re sweeter than anything he’s been fed in years.

That’s my opening. I can’t push too hard or too fast, or he’ll retreat back into silence. I need to give him just enough to keep thinking, keep doubting the way things are.

After a few moments of heavy silence, I continue.

“Tell me,” I say, tilting my head slightly, letting curiosity color my words, “when they finally put you in charge, what’s the first thing you’ll do differently?”

He doesn’t answer right away, but I don’t rush him. I just keep my gaze steady, pretending I’m more interested in his answer than in the door behind him. He shifts his weight, scratches the side of his jaw.

“I’d sure as hell teach these assholes about respect,” he finally grumbles.

I nod slowly, like it’s the smartest thing I’ve ever heard. “Exactly. That’s what leaders do. They make people respect them. They set the rules instead of following them.”

For the first time since I’ve been dragged into this nightmare, the heavy knot of fear in my stomach loosens just a fraction. Because he’s listening. Because I’ve found a thread, and if I can keep tugging, maybe, just maybe, I can weave it into a way out.

I shift my tone slightly, gentle and almost conspiratorial. “You know, I don’t think they appreciate you the way they should. But I see it. I can tell you’re different. Smarter. Stronger. They’d be lost without you.”

His chest rises and falls in a sharp breath, like he’s been waiting to hear these exact words for years.

I keep my face calm, but inside, my thoughts race. If I play this right, I can talk him into loosening the straps, maybe even taking me outside for fresh air. Maybe I can convince him that a real leader doesn’t need to keep a woman tied up like a package. Hope flickers inside me, fragile but alive, and I know this is my chance.

Then the first crack of gunfire tears through the quiet. Terror swells and knocks the breath from my lungs. Is it Damien coming to rescue me, or something else?

The big man hears it too. His head snaps toward the corridor, and his hand goes to the pistol on his belt. I see the moment he decides I’m now a problem he can fix fast. My words die between us without any chance to flower into anything useful. He grips the back of my chair and drags me so fast the legs screech against the floor. Then he undoes the straps and yanks me to my feet. My elbow aches with the force of his grip. He shoves me toward a narrow door with flaking paint, twists the knob, and throws it open with a rough jerk.

The closet is a dark rectangle that smells like bleach, old mop water, and the metallic tang of rust. Shelves line one wall, filled with buckets, rags, and a jumble of unlabeled bottles. The big man pushes me inside hard enough to clip my hip against a metal bin. The ache shoots up my side and into my ribs. He crowds the doorway, breathing hard, then slams the door and turns the lock with a decisive click. A second sound follows, lower and heavier, as if he has jammed something into the handle or wedged a bar across the outside. His boots pound away, swallowed by gunfire and shouting.

For a full heartbeat I stand frozen in the dark as the world on the other side of the door explodes. The air inside the closet tastes damp and old. Dust tickles the back of my throat. My forearms throb where the straps rubbed raw skin over bone. The pounding outside rolls through the walls in waves, and I force myself to move because standing still feels like sinking. I twist the knob. It doesn’t budge.

I throw my shoulder at the door. The metal doesn’t give, just shivers in its frame. I suck in a breath and press my forehead against the cool surface, thinking through the problem.

Noise fills the warehouse. Some of it sounds like suppressed shots, quick and clipped, and some of it cracks wide and bright. Men shout in Russian and English, voices colliding and splitting apart. Something heavy skids across concrete. The heater rattles and gasps on the other side of the wall, a useless little rhythm under the chaos.

The gunfire rises to a jagged roar and I flinch, then clamp down on the instinct. Panic wastes air and energy. I don’t have enough of either to spare. I focus on my breathing the way the nurse taught me at the obstetrician’s office. In for four, hold for four, out for six.

I think about blood flow and oxygen and the small life inside me. I press my palms lightly against my belly and tell the baby to stay calm, that we are not quitting, that I will protect him or her. My voice shakes, but I say it anyway because I need to hear it and because I believe that promises spoken out loud can sometimes become instructions to the body.

I bang the flat of my hands against the door. The noise echoes in the small space and carries out into the hall. I hit again and againin a quick rhythm, then shout Damien’s name. I push the words out with force because I want the sound to travel like a beacon.

The ceiling above the closet shakes and a shower of dust falls over my hair and shoulders. I duck my head and cough. I press my ear to the door and try to separate the sounds. Footsteps pound by and fade. A command clicks across a radio. Silence follows for a heartbeat, then erupts into a roar that lifts every hair on my arms.

The lock snaps loud enough to make me jump. The handle jerks, then stops against the wedge shoved into place earlier. There is a grunt and the sound of metal griding against metal.

A second later, the whole door shudders violently. The wedge gives with a crack and the door flies inward so fast it bounces off the shelves and rattles back toward the frame. Cold air hits my face. Light sweeps over the closet in a thin blade. I grab the nearest bottle of cleaner and hold it up like it’s a weapon.

Damien fills the doorway with blood on his knuckles, smoke on his clothes, and a look in his eyes that pins me to the spot. He steps in before the door can swing closed and takes the bottle from my hands with a small twist, like taking a toy from a child who no longer needs it. The next moment his arms are around me and the world stops moving.

28

DAMIEN

It had felt like my life was already over, as if the air had been stripped from my lungs, when I realized Lyra was gone. Every second of those hours without her dragged me back into the darkness I thought I had survived when my father was killed. But this was worse. The thought of losing her, the woman who had become my anchor, my family, the mother of my child, was unbearable.

Now she’s in my arms, warm and breathing, pressed so close I feel her heartbeat against mine. The ragged edges of panic dull with every passing second. She isn’t hurt. I look at her face, eyes brimming with tears, hair falling in messy strands, lips trembling against my shoulder. She’s here, and she’s safe. Nothing else matters.

All the fire I had carried in me for Rurik, all the years of rage, of planning, of waiting for the moment when I could be the one to put a bullet in him, mean nothing anymore. I once swore that killing him with my own hands was the only way I would ever find peace. I told myself that I owed it to my father, that it wasmy birthright, that my soul would never settle until Rurik was dead by my hand.

But when I saw Lyra in that closet, alone and terrified, those lies burned away. It didn’t even occur to me to tell my men to save Rurik for me. For the first time in my life, vengeance is not the point. The only thing I need is her, alive, breathing, whole. If Alek or Radimir or anyone else wants to finish Rurik, so be it. I don’t care if the man rots in a ditch with no name. As long as I have her back in my arms, the feud can be settled by anyone.