Page 139 of Ruthless Addiction

My lungs tightened, panic clawing at my throat.

I forced my eyes open again.

The light dimmed slightly—someone must have adjusted it—and the warehouse came into jagged focus.

Rusted metal beams crisscrossed the cavernous ceiling, draped in cobwebs, with flickering fluorescent bulbs buzzing like angry insects.

The air was stale, heavy with the metallic tang of rust and old oil, tainted by the acrid bite of something sharper—gunpowder, perhaps.

Broken windows high above let in slivers of gray dawn, casting long, sinister shadows across the cracked concrete floor littered with debris: shattered crates, tangled wires, and forgotten tools.

Above me, shadows moved along the encircling balconies—at least a dozen men clad in tactical black, rifles slung over shoulders or held loosely in their hands.

Their faces were masked, eyes gleaming in the half-light like predators watching prey.

My gaze darted to the massive warehouse doors, rusted shut and chained. There was no easy escape. Every instinct screamed at me: this wasn’t random. Someone had planned this—fortified it.

A soft whimper cut through the oppressive silence.

My head twisted painfully, and I saw her. Seraphina. Tied to an identical chair, her designer dress torn, dirt-streaked, and soaked in shadows.

Her blonde hair was matted, mascara streaked down her cheeks in black rivulets.

She looked nothing like the cunning, manipulative woman who had tried to unsettle Dmitri just yesterday—now she was vulnerable, broken.

“What... what happened?” I whispered, voice hoarse, throat raw as sandpaper.

The last memory of the night before was drifting off in Dmitri’s arms. How had I ended up here? My stomach turned as the possibilities crashed through me. Drugged? Snatched? Someone had penetrated the estate, slipped past guards, alarms, and cameras.

My pulse skyrocketed.

The men on the balconies shifted slightly, and one stepped forward, lowering his rifle to rest lazily across his chest.

His movements were precise, controlled—professional. My mind raced. Kidnappers. Mercenaries. Professionals. No amateurs would dare take me here, not with the kind of people Dmitri associates with.

I drew a shaky breath, forcing my body to stay as calm as possible despite the adrenaline surging through me.

I scanned the room for anything—a loose plank, a sharp edge on the chair—but the ropes were knotted expertly. Escape was not an option. Not yet.

Then, faintly, I heard a metallic click.

My head snapped toward the sound, and across the room, shadows shifted again. The figure on the balcony moved, and my heart seized. There was someone else here—someone in control. The calm, deadly air in the warehouse pressed down like a weight, and I realized with a sick twist in my stomach: this wasn’t just a random attack. This was personal.

Seraphina’s eyes met mine, wide and pleading. “They... they’re going to... hurt us,” she whispered, voice trembling.

I swallowed hard, every muscle tense.

My ankles were bound as well, immobilized, helpless.

What the hell is happening?

My mind raced backward in frantic fragments.

Antonio’s voice at the gala.

I’ll kidnap you again—this time for good.

He’d promised this. But not now. Not yet. The war hadn’t started. Dmitri’s forces were intact. His estate was locked down like a fortress.