Page 86 of Ruthless Addiction

Turned slowly.

“And you think I’d hesitate?” I asked, my voice deadly quiet now.

He rose to his feet again, eyes dark, unblinking. “No,” he said. “I don’t think you would.”

“Then move,” I spat.

“But divorce isn’t possible,” he continued, unruffled. “Not right now. It’s in the contract. Three months.”

The room seemed to tilt again.

“So you’re telling me,” I said hoarsely, “that I won’t see my son for three months?”

“I’m telling you I’ll get him back long before that,” he said, stepping closer, his voice lowering. “But you need to stay calm.”

A laugh tore out of me—bitter, hollow, almost unhinged.

“Calm?” I echoed. “My son has been taken, Dmitri. And you want calm?”

I shook my head, backing away. “This marriage does nothing for me. Nothing. It only saves you from marrying Seraphina and her vipers. You get protection. Power. Time.”

My chest tightened painfully.

“And I get this,” I finished. “You’re a selfish bastard.”

I didn’t wait for his response.

I stormed out, the door slamming behind me like a gunshot.

The mansion swallowed me whole.

Corridors blurred past.

I flew down the grand staircase, fingers grazing the carved balustrade, the sound of my heels ricocheting through the cavernous foyer.

The waterfall wall murmured softly, mockingly serene.

I burst through the front doors into the courtyard, cool evening air slapping my overheated skin.

One of Dmitri’s cars waited in the drive.

A sleek black Aston Martin.

Keys inside. Always.

Old habits die hard.

I slid into the driver’s seat, slammed the door shut, and turned the ignition. The engine roared to life, feral and impatient.

Gravel sprayed as I reversed out hard, tires screaming in protest.

I didn’t look back.

All I knew was this—

If Dmitri Volkov wouldn’t bring my son back to me, then I would tear the Orlovs apart myself trying.

In the rear-view mirror, I caught him.