Page 11 of The Russian's Revenge Bride

I checked my wrists and ankles for restraints but found nothing. That was strange. Why go through the trouble of drugging and kidnapping someone just to leave them free to move around? Unless this room was escape-proof, which seemed likely given the lack of windows.

The door looked like solid, heavy wood with what seemed to be a high-quality lock. I tried the handle anyway, more out of desperate hope than real expectation.

Locked. Of course.

I pressed my ear against the wood, listening for any sounds from beyond. Footsteps, voices, anything that might give me a clue about where I was or who had taken me. But there was nothing except the faint hum of ventilation and my own ragged breathing.

Think, Eleanor. Think.

This wasn’t random. Random kidnappers didn’t drug you in a fashion building’s stairwell and then house you in rooms that looked like they belonged in a five-star resort. This was planned, professional, targeted.

But why me? I wasn’t wealthy enough to justify a ransom demand. My fashion company was successful but not hugely profitable. I didn’t have any enemies I knew of, and no ex-boyfriends crazy enough to do something like this.

Unless it wasn’t about me at all.

My father. William Beaumont, construction tycoon and grade-A asshole. He had enemies, that was for sure. The kind ofman who built his empire by stepping on anyone who got in his way didn’t make it through life without collecting a few grudges.

The thought made my stomach twist with something that might have been fear or rage. If this was about Dad’s business dealings, if I’d been dragged into his mess because of blood I couldn’t help sharing, I was going to kill him myself if I ever got out of here.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway outside made me freeze. Heavy, measured, approaching with the kind of confidence that said whoever was coming knew exactly what they were doing.

A key turned in the lock.

I backed away from the door, my heart hammering against my ribs. Whatever was about to happen, I wasn’t going to face it cowering in a corner. I stood as straight as I could, chin up, trying to project a confidence I absolutely didn’t feel.

The door opened, and the man who entered was nothing like what I’d expected.

He was tall, probably around six feet, with the kind of lean build that suggested strength without bulk. His hair was black and thick, pulled back in a neat bun that accentuated the sharp angles of his face. But it was his eyes that caught my attention and held it. Gray as storm clouds, cold and calculating in a way that made my skin crawl.

There was a scar beneath his right eye, a thin line of raised flesh that looked old but prominent. It gave his face a dangerous edge, like a blade that had been sharpened by violence.

He was wearing all black—expensive-looking pants and a button-down shirt that fit him perfectly. Everything about him screamed money and control, from his polished shoes to the way he carried himself like he owned every space he entered.

And despite everything, despite the fact that this man had obviously kidnapped me, my traitorous body responded to him in ways that made me hate myself. My pulse quickened, not entirely from fear. There was something magnetic about him, something that drew the eye and held it even when every rational thought in my head was screaming danger.

I wanted to slap myself for even noticing how attractive my captor was.

“You’re awake,” he said, his voice low and controlled. Russian accent, subtle but unmistakable. “Good. We need to talk.”

“Go fuck yourself,” I snapped, crossing my arms over my chest. If he was expecting some scared little girl who would cry and beg, he was about to be disappointed. “Who the hell are you, and what do you want?”

He closed the door behind him with a soft click that sounded as final as a coffin lid slamming shut. “My name is Maxim Voronov. What I want is answers from your father about something that happened six years ago in Prague.”

Prague. Arms deals. The pieces started falling into place, and I didn’t like the picture they were forming.

“You’re Bratva,” I said, and it wasn’t a question.

“Smart girl.” He moved further into the room, every step deliberate and controlled. “Your father orchestrated an ambush that left seven of my men dead and my partner bleeding out on a warehouse floor. I’ve spent six years tracking down the bastard responsible.”

The casual way he talked about death and violence made my skin crawl. This wasn’t some crime of passion or desperate grab for money. This was cold, calculated revenge, years in the making.

“So, you kidnapped his daughter.” My voice was steadier than I felt. “Real fucking original.”

“You’re leverage,” he said simply. “A way to get William Beaumont’s attention and make him pay for what he did.”

I laughed, the sound bitter and harsh in the elegant room. “You picked the wrong leverage, asshole. My father doesn’t give a shit about me.”

That seemed to give him pause. His gray eyes studied my face, looking for signs of deception. “You’re his only child.”