Page 102 of Royal Deception

I try to move, but my arms don’t budge.

Panic surges through me as I realize why.

I’m tied up.

The restraints bite into my skin—some kind of rope, looped around my wrists and secured to the metal bars of an old, creaky bed frame. My ankles are bound too, just loose enough that I can shift slightly but not nearly enough to do anything useful.

The room around me is dimly lit, the air thick with the scents of sweat and mildew. A small, flickering lamp sits on a battered dresser in the corner. The mattress beneath me is thin, the sheets stained.

A wave of nausea rolls through me.

Then, I hear it.

A voice, low, urgent.Dmitry?

I strain my ears, forcing myself to focus through the drugged haze. He’s on the phone, pacing near the window, speaking in Russian. I can’t understand a word, but his tone sends a chill down my spine.

Who is he talking to? And what the hell does he plan to do with me?

I start to struggle against my bonds. I can’t let them do something to me. I have to protect myself and the baby.

But just as I start to make headway on the rope looped around my ankles, Dmitry comes in and yells something at me before plunging a second vial of drugs into my chest.

And then there’s only darkness.

The world tilts violently as I come to, my head pounding like a drum inside my skull. My mouth is dry, my tongue heavy and thick, and it takes me a long, agonizing second to realize I’m not where I was before.

The air is different. Cold. Dusty. The scent of fresh sawdust lingers in my nose, mingling with something damp, like wet concrete. My fingers twitch, but when I try to move, I can’t.

I’m still tied up.

Panic rushes in, white-hot and overwhelming. My wrists are bound behind me, my ankles tied together, and when I shift even a fraction, I hear the unmistakable scrape of rope against raw skin.

Oh, God. Oh, God.

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing myself to breathe through the fog in my head. The last thing I remember is Dmitry—his wild eyes, his hands shaking, the sharp sting of a needle plunging into my chest. Now I’m here, somewhere unfamiliar, somewhere unfinished. A half-built housing complex, if the exposed beams and skeletal walls mean anything.

And I’m not alone.

A slow, deliberate set of footsteps echoes across the space. The hair on my arms rises as my sluggish brain tries to place the sound. Boots. Heavy. Unhurried.

I force myself to lift my head.

Aleksey Mikhailov steps into view, crouching down until he’s eye level with me.

He’s watching me. Studying. His lips curl into something that might be mistaken for a smile if not for the cruel amusement glinting in his eyes.

“Well,” he murmurs, reaching out to brush a lock of hair from my face. “You made it so easy for us, Clary. Gave yourself right over.”

His fingers trail down my cheek before he withdraws. He sighs, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

“But at least you were obedient about it,” he muses. “Such a good girl.”

A shiver of pure revulsion rips down my spine.

Those words—words that make my stomach tighten and my breath hitch when Rory says them—now feel like poison dripping from Aleksey’s tongue. They feel filthy. Twisted.

I force myself to meet his gaze, despite the fear clawing at my ribs, despite the weight of the drugs still fogging my mind. My pulse is a thunderous roar in my ears, but I grit my teeth and manage a smirk.