Page 142 of Ruthless Addiction

The man was broad-shouldered, face weathered, eyes flat, predatory.

A dark thobe and keffiyeh concealed the rest.

Beside him, the woman’s black abaya and niqab left only her eyes exposed—cold, assessing, calculating, as if evaluating the worth of merchandise.

The faint whisper of their accents confirmed the nightmare: northern Albanian, from the clans where old laws ruled and human life was currency.

The masked leader extended a hand toward them, his gesture theatrically cruel. “Whoever you save, Dmitri,” he taunted, his voice dripping malice, “walks free. The other... is theirs.” His words landed like a hammer—pointing to the man and woman who had just entered, the buyers of the one Dmitri would not choose.

The masked leader drew a long, wicked knife, pressing the tip against Dmitri’s throat. A thin line of blood welled instantly, gleaming in the harsh light.

“You have three seconds,” the man said. “Or we choose for you.”

Dmitri’s chest heaved, every inhale ragged, pain etched deep in every line of his battered face. Yet his gaze never wavered from mine.

“One...”

Dmitri’s mouth opened. Nothing. The knife pressed harder; blood trickled down his neck, warm and slick against his skin.

“Two...”

“I choose her!” he rasped, voice hoarse, jagged, torn from somewhere deep within his soul. He jerked his chin toward Seraphina.

My jaw dropped. Air fled my lungs in a strangled, silent scream.

He chose her? Seraphina—the woman he despised, the architect of this nightmare—over me?

The betrayal hit like molten metal, searing through my chest, scorching every fiber of my being.

My hands twisted uselessly against the ropes, the coarse fibers cutting into my skin as if to remind me of my helplessness.

The Albanian couple advanced, their presence suffocating.

The man circled me deliberately, each step measured, predatory. His deep voice carried over the cavernous warehouse. “Fresh fish,” he murmured in broken English, a smirk curving his lips. “She’ll fetch a high price... or keep us entertained.”

The woman’s head tilted, the slit of her eyes assessing me like a buyer at a market. Her hands rested on her abaya, calm and deliberate, the contrast between her stillness and my rising panic maddening.

The masked leader’s rough hands suddenly clamped around Dmitri’s hair, yanking him backward.

I could almost feel the cruel tug at his scalp, the sharp pain radiating through him—and the terrifying thought that he was leaving me.

My body writhed, every muscle coiled and straining against the restraints, desperate, powerless.

“Dmitri!” I screamed, my voice cracking, shattering the warehouse silence. “Dmitri, look at me! You can’t do this—don’t leave me!”

His eyes—so full of pain, so impossibly heavy—remained locked on me as the masked leader yanked him toward the door by his hair.

Every inch of his body screamed in agony, hands trembling with the effort, yet he did not resist. He did not fight—he couldn’t, or perhaps he chose not to. And still... still, his gaze refused to leave mine.

Pain carved lines across his face, raw and relentless, until a single tear slipped down, tracing a path through the blood and grime.

Our eyes met, and time seemed to stretch between us.

In that gaze, I saw everything he could not say: torment, apology, the unbearable weight of failure, love laced with regret, and the faintest, most terrifying whisper of goodbye.

My chest ached as though it might shatter, and in that moment, I realized some losses are felt long before they arrive.

“You can’t leave me!” I shrieked, voice raw, primal. “Dmitri, you bastard! You can’t—” My shoulders heaved, ribs aching from the effort, and the ropes bit deeper into my wrists.