Page 32

32

TASH

C old concrete bites into my knees as the men shove me onto the floor. My wrists burn from the zip ties, and my heart pounds against my ribs. The room smells of mildew and something metallic—blood, my mind supplies unhelpfully.

A tall figure steps from the shadows. His expensive suit starkly contrasts the grimy surroundings. Igor Lebedev. I’ve seen his photo in news articles, always next to words like “oligarch” and “suspected ties.” But those sterile images didn’t capture the predatory gleam in his steel-gray eyes or how his presence fills the space like a toxic gas.

“Ms. Blackwood.” His accent wraps around my name like barbed wire. “Welcome to my humble establishment.”

I force myself to meet his gaze, though every instinct screams to look away. His perfectly manicured hands rest casually in his pockets, but there’s nothing casual about how he studies me—like a scientist examining a specimen under glass.

“I must admit, I was curious to meet the woman who has Dmitri Ivanov so... distracted.” He circles me slowly, his leather shoes clicking against the concrete. “Though I fail to see the appeal that would make him lower his guard so foolishly.”

My throat constricts, but I manage to keep my voice steady. “If you’re trying to intimidate me?—”

“Intimidate?” He laughs, the sound echoing off the bare walls. “My dear, if I wanted to intimidate you, we would have a very different conversation.” He stops directly in front of me, close enough that I can smell his expensive cologne. “No, this is merely... a business transaction. You are leverage, nothing more.”

The zip ties dig deeper as one of Igor’s men yanks me to my feet by my hair. I bite back a cry, refusing to give them the satisfaction.

“Pretty little thing.” The guard’s breath reeks of cigarettes as he leers at me. “Boss, maybe we could have some fun with her first?”

Igor’s cold laugh makes my skin crawl. “Patience. We need her presentable for now. Dmitri should see exactly what his weakness has cost him.”

I force myself to stand straight, channeling every ounce of old-money poise my mother drilled into me. “I’m not his weakness.”

“No?” Igor’s hand shoots out, gripping my jaw. “Then explain why his security was so... lacking. The great Dmitri Ivanov, leaving his precious curator with only two guards.” His fingers dig into my skin. “Amateur mistake. One he’ll pay dearly for.”

Another guard shoves me roughly against the wall. “Not so high and mighty now, are you, princess?”

I taste blood where I’ve bitten my cheek, but I meet Igor’s gaze. “If you’re trying to break me, you’ll have to do better than this schoolyard bullying.”

The backhand comes fast, snapping my head to the side. Stars explode behind my eyes.

“Such spirit.” Igor straightens his cuff links. “We’ll see how long that lasts. Perhaps we’ll send Dmitri a little video, show him how his... investment is performing.”

Bile rises in my throat at his tone, but I swallow it down. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me crack. Won’t let him use my fear against Dmitri.

“You know what’s pathetic?” I say, letting ice coat my words. “How desperately you need this leverage. What does that say about your position?”

Igor’s facade cracks momentarily, and a flash of rage confirms I’ve hit a nerve. “Get her cleaned up. And do try not to damage her... too much. Yet.”

Igor’s fingers drum against a metal table as he pulls up a chair, the screech against concrete making me wince.

“You think you know him, don’t you? Your precious Dmitri?” His lips curl into a sneer. “Let me tell you what kind of man you’re sleeping with. Did he mention he’s holding my daughter?”

My heart stutters. “What?”

“Katarina. My beautiful girl.” Something flickers across his face—pain, maybe even genuine grief. “They took her from her own home. And now Erik Ivanov has her, doing God knows what.”

I try to keep my expression neutral, but my mind races. Dmitri never mentioned a hostage.

“You’re lying.”

“Am I?” He pulls out his phone, showing me a photo of a striking young woman with bright blue eyes. “Ask yourself—how many other secrets is he keeping? What else don’t you know about the man warming your bed?”

The zip ties bite into my wrists as I shift uncomfortably. “Whatever’s between you and the Ivanovs?—”

“Is now between you and me.” His voice hardens. “They took my daughter, so I took his woman. Simple mathematics. An eye for an eye.”

“I’m not his?—”

“Save your protests.” Igor stands, looming over me. “You’re leverage. It’s not personal. Though I must admit, there’s a certain poetry to it. The great Dmitri Ivanov was brought low by a museum curator. And now he’ll have to choose—you or keeping my daughter captive.”

The worst part is that I can hear the truth in his words—the pain when he speaks of Katarina. It makes me question everything I thought I knew about this war and about Dmitri.

“He won’t trade,” I say, but uncertainty creeps into my voice.

Igor’s smile is razor-sharp. “Then perhaps you’re not as important to him as you thought. We’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?”

I slump against the cold wall, my mind racing with Igor’s words. Everything I thought I knew about Dmitri feels like quicksand beneath my feet. A hostage. He’s been holding a hostage this whole time and never told me.

My chest tightens as memories flash—all those times he stepped away for “urgent business,” the hushed conversations with his brothers, the way Erik would sometimes disappear for hours. Was he with her? Was she locked away somewhere while Dmitri and I shared intimate dinners and passionate nights?

The zip ties dig into my wrists as I shift position, trying to find comfort on the concrete floor. But there’s no comfort to be found in this reality. If Dmitri could hide something this massive, what else has he kept from me?

Every tender moment, every seemingly honest conversation, were they all calculated moves in some greater game? When he told me he was falling for me, was that just another lie to keep me close, keep me useful?

My throat burns with unshed tears, but I refuse to let them fall. Not here. Not where Igor’s men can see my weakness. But the questions keep coming, relentless as waves against rocks. Will Dmitri trade for me? Does he even care enough to try? Or am I just another piece on his chessboard, expendable when a better move presents itself?

The uncertainty gnaws at me worse than the fear. At least with fear, I know where I stand. But this feeling of not knowing what’s real and what’s manipulation? It’s like trying to stand on shifting sand.

A guard’s boots scrape against the concrete as he passes, and I press myself harder against the wall. My entire world has narrowed to this moment, this cold room, and the sickening possibility that everything with Dmitri has been an elaborate lie.