Page 3 of Scarlet Promise (Yegorov Bratva #4)

Chapter Three

ALINA

I don’t know how long I’ve been alone in this room. Hours, I think. It seems like it’s been hours.

I’ve gone from panic to weary acceptance that this is where I’m stuck for now.

But acceptance isn’t giving up, and it’s not adjusting to my situation. I’m just…accepting I’m stuck. My initial panic and fear has dampened into tired dread. It’s either that or shut down from the constant bombarding.

In a way, it’s not that different from all-consuming grief. It fades into tired sadness and slides into the background to allow me to live, sometimes laugh, and then it slams into me when I least expect it.

I think my emotions in this situation will do that, too.

Not in exactly the same way, but if something happens, a sound, the door, someone coming in—there’s an endless array of horrible possibilities—I’m sure it’ll pummel into me.

So for now, I’ll take this acceptance.

I can think like this.

I pace the room. I’ve checked the door, looked for secret doorways in the wall, things I knew weren’t there, but it was something to do.

My list of things I can’t do is long. I can’t figure out where I am, other than some kind of basement that may be used for storage or, considering the sofa and heavy locks on the door, to keep prisoners. I’m too small and weak to overthrow anyone who walks in. And if I do get out…

I don’t know how many are out there, or if I can get to a car or a phone.

There are so many variables.

Too many. As panic starts to shift inside, I move to what I do know.

Demyan’s back, so he’ll be with Ilya.

Neither man will stop at nothing until they have me back.

Melor’s underestimating Ilya. Perhaps overestimating my brother. Don’t get me wrong. Demyan’s deadly, but so is Ilya. And Ilya can change to fit a scenario, more so than my brother.

It’s why Demyan has him as his second, even if they aren’t as close as brothers.

But they aren’t here.

I am.

So what can I do?

I sit on the sofa, reach for the water, and take a careful sip, enough to slake the edge of thirst, not enough to need to pee. I want the water to last.

I’m small and weak, but I can move. I know some self-defense. I can handle a gun, and if I have to, I’ll poke a man’s eyes out and twist his nuts so hard he’ll think I’m ripping them from his body.

These men are big. I’m small.

I can use my smallness. Turn their big bulk against them.

At least, I can try. And if I can get a gun, a knife, whatever, I’ll fucking use it. I swear to god. I’ll imagine the man in front of me pulled that trigger and murdered Max.

And I know that’s what they want to do to Ilya.

So yes. I’ll do it.

If I can.

“After all,” I whisper, “what do I have to lose?”

Not a damn thing.

At least taking me means they need me alive, and needing me alive means they won’t kill me.

I pace again, stretch, try to stay limber and awake. When I need to sit, I do.

And I have a new mantra now.

What do I have to lose? Not a damn thing.

It’s a good mantra.

Better than self-pity. Better?—

Something bangs directly above me, so loud I let out a small scream.

It’s like a beast upstairs has woken, one made of scrapes and bangs and thumps. Of heavy boots.

They’re either back or still here, only they’ve moved to the ground floor if this place is multi-storied.

It strikes me then, like ice thrown at my face, that there are worse things than death.

Human trafficking comes to mind. Or using me to lure Ilya to his death.

Demyan, too, because why stop at taking one bratva when you can take two?

But taking the Yegorov Bratva makes no sense. Not one man would follow the person stepping in to be the new pakhan. They’d be ripped to pieces, and I suspect Erin would be first in line.

My hold on my emotions slips.

The grief of losing Max swamps me, and now it’s threefold with the possibility of losing my brother and Ilya. I can’t lose two loves. I can’t. I can’t lose my brother, either. I can’t lose either of them.

I’m not sure Melor would kill Demyan. But Ilya? Oh yes.

I start to tremble, the tears pushing, one spilling free. I dash it away.

The lock scrapes, and the door swings open with a bang, making me jump.

Melor strides in, a sneer on his face, and reaches for me.

I pull my arm away at the last minute, so he grabs air instead. I hurl myself into him, raising my knee and slamming him in the balls. He grunts and snatches my hair as I try to grab his gun in his belt. He wrenches my head back.

Searing pain streaks through me.

I drop my hand past the gun and grab his junk, twisting it.

He cries out and picks me up by the hair, pulling me off him. I go for his eyes, scrape my nails down his face, trying to dig in.

Melor throws me to the ground. I land on my shoulder with an agonizing, jarring thud.

Even as I try to get up, his shadow falls over me. He slams a foot hard on my other shoulder, pinning me to my back.

“Cunt.”

With that, he picks me up by the throat and crushes a fist into my face, turning everything into a burst of white and black.

He drops me, jumps on me, and punches me again, banging my head against the cement floor.

Now there are two…three of him.

He grabs my head and smashes it to the ground again.

Everything short-circuits and turns black.

The hammering in my head won’t stop. It makes my stomach turn and heave so much that I want to curl into a ball and throw up. But I can’t. I can’t move, and the waves of pain that rock me are so bad that I wish for oblivion.

Somehow, I make myself crack open my eyes. The world swims brightly into existence, and everything blurs and shifts into two.

Taking a slow, careful breath, I pull at my hands.

Something tethers my wrists. I try my feet. Same there.

I’m tied to a chair. Slowly, it comes into focus.

It takes me long seconds to sort the chaos in my brain, and every time I do, it slips away again.

“Where am I?” My voice sounds thick and slurred, and I think I’ve got a concussion.

Why am I tied to a chair? Where’s Ilya?

That’s wrong. Why am I thinking of Ilya? I’m engaged. Where’s Max?

Cold creeps in.

No. Max is dead.

Where’s Ilya?

Ilya… I cling to Ilya, and things slowly drift through the violent pounding in my head.

I’m married to Ilya. Fake. Real. I love him. I have a dog, Albert.

I pull at my wrists and cry out in pain as the tight ropes cinch even tighter. My arms are bound at an odd angle.

I sit there breathing and close my eyes, letting my limbs stay loose, but my hands now throb.

The ropes are too tight.

Why am I tied to a chair?

Where’s Ilya?

I want Ilya.

Slowly, the clanging in my head recedes to a manageable level. The pain’s still intense, but I think I can open my eyes again.

I do so slowly.

My vision blurs a little but comes into focus.

Why am I tied to a chair?

Where’s Ilya?

And why the fuck am I in some rustic bedroom now, with what looks like a yellow-colored bed, wooden walls, and a shut door?

I look to the right. My heart thumps. A window.

My heart sinks down low.

It’s a barred window, but the curtains are open, giving me a view of trees for miles.

I’m in the middle of nowhere.

The chances of Ilya finding me are so small, it may as well be zero.

Maybe I’m not bait or anything else. Maybe they mean to kill me, send the photos to Demyan and Ilya, and bury me where no one will ever find me.

I’m not sure why they’d go to the trouble if Melor wants the Belov Bratva. There is no other reason I can think of. The whole operation is so big and convoluted that it’s all I can think about. Otherwise, why didn’t they just kill me instead of kidnapping me?

They want something, and me alive is their way of getting it.

None of this fills me with hope.

The door opens, and Melor walks in. The scratches on his face please me, and I hope I damaged his balls. I hope they ache every time he moves and pees.

He throws something at me, and it hits my chest. I look down. A sandwich. Cheese from the looks of it. White American bread with a thick orange chunk between the slices.

“Eat.”

I glare at him. “I’m tied up, so it’s a bit difficult.”

“How’s your face? I should have broken your nose.”

“How are your balls? I should’ve castrated you.” I shouldn’t have said it, but I couldn’t stop myself.

He laughs, but I can hear a note of anger and pain beneath it. “Fucking stupid bratva princess bitch.”

He storms closer, snatches up the sandwich, and pulls my head back.

I clench my teeth to stop crying out.

“I said eat.” He shoves the sandwich against my closed lips until I open and have no choice but to take a bite. But then he keeps pushing it in until I start to choke.

Then he steps back, letting me go.

I chew and attempt to swallow, but my mouth’s dry. Luckily the bread’s so soft that it just forms a weird ball, and I manage to get it down.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask.

He shrugs. “It’s simple. Ilya took something from me, so I took something of his in return.”

My stomach roils.

He means me.

Maybe I’m not bait… That makes me shrink back.

“What are you going to do with me?”

Melor doesn’t answer.

All of my previous thoughts come back. Trafficked. Sex slave. Rape victim. I know all three are the same, but there are degrees, and they’re all awful.

But this man humping on me? This man sharing me with his men? That’s a special sort of torture.

I don’t think he means something as easy as death.

Melor pulls a bottle of water from his back pocket, cracks the lid, and shoves it at my mouth. “Drink.”

I open to drink the water because I need it. But he doesn’t really care if I get any in my actual mouth, and it ends up mostly all over me with only a mouthful for me to swallow down.

I’m now soaked through, and it’s cold. It’s early fall, but wherever we are is cold. I shiver in my wet, thin T-shirt.

He tosses the bottle, ignoring me as he pulls out his beeping phone.

“Please,” I say, “can I have a blanket?—”

“Shut the fuck up,” he mutters. “Keep quiet, and don’t go anywhere.”

He grins nastily at me as he leaves.

And I’m alone.

Once again.

“Ilya,” I whisper. “Where are you?”

No one answers.