Page 42 of Royal Deception (Royals of the Underworld #2)

CLARY

T hough everything in me is screaming to call Rory and let him know what’s going on, some stubborn part of me insists that I can handle this on my own.

So I call an Uber to take me across town to the address we found for the man behind Callie’s stalking.

Dmitry Petrov.

The sky seems to turn dark, a forecast storm on the horizon threatening to break as I arrive at the address we found.

I don’t know what I’m expecting when I arrive, but the sight of the rundown apartment complex makes my stomach knot.

The building is tall, gray, and weathered, its windows grimy, its exterior littered with old cigarette butts and empty beer bottles.

It looks like the kind of place people go when they don’t want to be found.

I tell myself that it’s just a coincidence. It has to be.

Making my way through the building, I keep my head down and try to listen in, to discern the type of people who might live here.

A few discrete inquiries get me the answers I’m looking for, and it turns my blood to ice.

This place is crawling with Russian gangsters. It’s popular with many of the lower-level thugs and criminals in Anatoly’s gang, and if I’m right, Ana’s stalker might be one of them.

Her stalking might be connected to the Russians.

My heart pounds in my chest, my fingers tightening around my phone. Every instinct is screaming at me to turn around, to leave before I do something reckless.

But I need to know.

So I head up the creaky, dimly lit stairwell, my breathing shallow as I find the apartment number that belongs to Dmitry Petrov.

I knock.

Silence.

I knock again, harder this time.

After a few moments, the door cracks open just a sliver, the chain still in place. A pair of sharp, ice-blue eyes meet mine through the gap, shadowed and wary.

The man behind the door is in his forties, maybe fifties, with thinning red hair and a face that looks like it’s seen its fair share of fights. His gaze flicks over me quickly, suspicion written in every line of his expression.

“You shouldn't be here,” he mutters in a thick Russian accent.

I don’t hesitate. “I know what you've been doing,” I say, voice steadier than I feel. “I know you’re the one who’s been stalking Callie Fitzgerald.”

The chain rattles as he flinches back. His grip tightens on the edge of the door, his knuckles going white.

His reaction is all the confirmation I need.

"Don’t know what you’re talking about," he snaps. “Go away.”

I plant my feet. “I have proof. We know you’ve been using different usernames, different accounts, but they all trace back to you. You’ve been harassing Miss Fitzgerald for months now, maybe even years!”

His nostrils flare. “I said, go away.”

“I will,” I say, tilting my head. “Right after I call the cops.” My heart is pounding in my chest, but I know what has to be done. I’m not going to rest until I bring Callie’s stalker to justice.

That gets his attention.

Dmitry’s jaw clenches. His eyes dart up and down the hallway, like he’s checking to see if anyone’s watching. Then, without another word, the door slams shut.

I take a shaky breath, my heart hammering.

I should leave.

But something tells me I’m not done here yet.

I pound on the door, demanding that he let me in. “I know you’re hiding in there, you coward!” I yell.

The sound of the lock sliding open barely gives me time to react before the door swings inward.

Dmitry moves fast—faster than I expect.

Before I can even step back, his hand is on me, yanking me forward with a sudden, jerking force.

Pain blooms in my chest as something sharp jabs just below my collarbone, right above my heart. A split second later, I feel a cold rush spreading through my veins.

I look down in shock.

A syringe.

The barrel is half-full with some kind of clear liquid, the label on the side flashing in my blurred vision—a long medical name I don’t recognize.

“What…” I try to say, but my tongue feels thick. My limbs go sluggish almost instantly.

Dmitry mutters something in Russian under his breath, a curse maybe, as he shoves me inside.

The world tilts violently, my knees buckling as the drug takes hold. The last thing I see before everything fades to black is the door slamming shut.

I wake up to the feeling of something rough digging into my wrists.

My head pounds, my throat dry, my body heavy.

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.

“I’m nobody’s good girl.”

Aleksey laughs, a sharp, delighted sound, like he’s genuinely amused. “That’s not true, little rabbit,” he says, tilting his head. “We all know you’ve been whoring yourself out for Rory Brannagan for months now.”

My stomach twists, but I force myself to keep my expression blank. I glare at him, refusing to react, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing how his words cut.

“And we know,” he continues smoothly, “that you’re carrying his baby.”

My breath catches.

I school my face into something unreadable, but Aleksey sees the flicker of emotion, and his grin deepens.

“How do you know that?” I demand, voice steady despite the cold dread settling over me.

Aleksey shrugs lazily then lifts a hand in a slow, deliberate wave.

From the shadows, someone steps forward.

A woman.

I freeze.

Slender. Platinum blonde hair. Wearing a sleek, expensive coat, her lips painted in the perfect shade of deep red, her smirk as sharp as a knife.

Kate.

Or…

“Katerina Orlov-Woodcrest,” she says, her voice rich with satisfaction, her Russian accent stronger than I’ve ever heard it. “You always did like to pretend you were better than me, Clarissa.”

Her full name rings in my ears like a gunshot.

Orlov.

Russian.

My stomach drops. My own last name—Woodcrest—is now tangled with hers in a way that makes me sick.

She tilts her head, enjoying my reaction. “You always were so naive, Clarissa.”

I don’t respond. My throat is too tight.

Kate’s smile widens.

“For the last six months, I’ve been seeing Dariy Volkov,” she continues, her voice dripping with pleasure at the reveal.

Dariy Volkov.

Anatoly’s cousin. His right-hand man.

And Kate’s been feeding him information about me.

Kate smirks. “I told you that things weren’t over between us, sweets.”

A cold sweat breaks over my skin.

Every detail. Every step I’ve taken. She’s known.

She’s been waiting for this moment.

I lift my chin, swallowing back the nausea crawling up my throat. “You always were a gold-digging bitch,” I say flatly. She just laughs.

Kate steps closer, her heels clicking against the unfinished floor. “Did you really think I’d let you get away with everything you did to me?” she purrs.

I clench my jaw. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Kate lets out a mock gasp, placing a hand over her heart like she’s wounded.

“Oh, Clarissa,” she coos. “Don’t tell me you forgot?

The way you humiliated me? The way you made me feel like trash?

Your father let you get away with it, but I never forgot.

I promised I’d pay you back for every nasty little thing you did. ”

I stare at her, my blood turning to ice.

I always knew she was a horrible person, a selfish, manipulative gold-digger who married my father for his money and tried to sink her claws into our lives.

But this?

Selling me out to the Russians?

Handing me over to men who want me dead?

I swallow hard, forcing myself to meet her eyes. “I knew you were heartless,” I say, my voice steady despite the rage burning inside me, “but I didn’t think you were stupid.”

Her smile doesn’t waver, but there’s a flicker of irritation in her expression.

“Aligning yourself with the Russians?” I continue, shaking my head. “What do you think is going to happen when this all comes crashing down? You think Dariy is going to protect you? You think Anatoly’s going to give a shit about you when the Feds come knocking?”

Kate clicks her tongue, stepping even closer. “Oh, sweetheart,” she sighs. “That’s where you and I are different. I know how to pick the winning side.”

My stomach churns, but I don’t let my expression slip.

She smirks. “And you?” She leans in, lowering her voice. “You’re about to lose everything.”

Aleksey chuckles, low and dark. “You’re not dying yet, solnishko . You’re far too valuable.” He crouches beside me, gripping my chin. “You’re going to be our bargaining chip.”