Page 6

ANISSA

Sleep. Blissful, deep sleep. Until it isn’t anymore.

I open one eye, groggy. My head hurts and feels too big for my body.

I wake up slowly. The first thing I register is the cold bite of metal on my wrists. Tight.

The second is a smell that’s all too familiar—one that’s been in my apartment.

Leather. Whiskey. Pine.

My heart beats too fast as memory rushes back. Him .

I wasn’t imagining things. I wasn’t hallucinating. Lovely. My life’s become one long episode of a freaky reality TV psycho-thriller.

I did have a stalker—one who had me terrified and running for my life. My eyes snap open.

Where am I? It’s dark, and I’m… in a cage. A cage.

Oh my fucking god.

The space is dimly lit, one flickering ivory bulb barely cutting through the shadows, the walls bare. If there are windows, they’re sealed tight and covered.

It feels like the ground beneath me is swaying. Am I…moving?

Where the hell am I?

Am I in a truck? A ship?

I don’t know.

But I do know one thing?—

This isn’t some damp basement. No duct tape around my wrists. I’m in a fucking cage.

I’m lying on a sleeping mat, with sheets beneath me and a heavy blanket over me, but it doesn’t change where I am?—

A prison.

The very thing I’ve spent my entire adult life trying to escape. Bile rises in the back of my throat along with my fury, but I have to stay focused.

Calm.

My body aches.

The back of my head throbs.

I close my eyes, trying to remember what happened.

My head hit a concrete wall. My wrists are sore, trapped in heavy-duty cuffs. I’m no stranger to kink—I’ve played around with handcuffs in my past—but these? These are the real deal. When I tug experimentally, they don’t budge.

I open my mouth, licking dry lips.

At least I’m not gagged.

And then I hear it?—

That same heavy, deep breathing that woke me in my apartment.

My voice is hoarse. “Who’s there? Why did I hear you in my apartment? Why are you doing this to me?” I don’t sound as angry as I feel. I could spit venom right now.

There’s a shift in the shadows. My breathing stills.

He’s here.

He’s sitting on the outside of the cage, arms crossed over the sheer mass of him, broad and inked and huge. His hair’s dark, unruly, and his eyes—those fucking eyes—blue-streaked gray, like fire and ash.

I hate the way my stomach clenches when he stares at me as if he… as if he knows me. Calculating. Assessing. Like I’m a problem that needs to be handled.

The cut of his jaw is too sharp, his features unforgivingly violent and raw, his mouth cruel.

A thick neck covered in ink that snakes down his chest and over his shoulders, the type of shoulders built for hard work and heavy lifting.

He leans forward, his body massive. Broad-shouldered, with a quiet intensity radiating from every inch of him.

But it’s the way he watches me that makes my skin crawl and burn at the same time. Like he already owns me. Like the chase is over, and he already knows exactly how this ends.

He has ten minutes, give or take, before I make him regret not kidnapping literally any other woman but me.

I should hate him. I do … I do hate him. But somewhere, under the hate, is something worse. Dangerous.

Something that feels like… fascination.

I stare before I ask again, “Who are you?” I pretend it takes all my energy to say this, like I’m more drugged than I am. I have to play into this if I’m going to escape, and I am going to fucking escape.

No one cages Anissa Laurent and lives to tell about it.

He doesn’t answer. Just watches me, taking up space in a worn leather chair, legs spread, one arm draped lazily over the armrest—like he has all the time in the world. Like he’s about to crack open a beer and watch a game.

My stomach tightens.

His voice is low, rough, and full of dark amusement. “Finally awake? Makes sense; I guess you were sleep-deprived.”

I glare at him. The weight of his gaze bears down on me. I wait, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t snarl. Doesn’t gloat or threaten.

Just watches. Unmoving. Patient. Like a wolf who’s already sunk its teeth in but enjoys the struggle too much to end it yet.

This hunt is over.

That’s what he thinks.

I force my breathing to steady. Panic is useless. I’ve been here before. I had to wait, bide my time until I could run.

I need information. A plan. My eyes flick to the corner of the room, searching.

He chuckles, low and lazy. I shiver. “Looking for an exit, little witch, so you can cast your spell?”

I roll my eyes at him. “Cute.”

His eyes narrow, even as he lets loose another chuckle that curls around my spine.

“Go to hell,” I snarl.

“Sweetheart,” he drawls, “I already told you.” A slow smile spreads across his face. “That’s where I came from. Do you want me to take you along with me?”

Right. I try to hide the shiver that rolls through me.

I don’t know who he is. I don’t know why I’m here. But I will not break.

I will not let him win. I will find a way out.

I can’t fucking wait. Finally, a chance to do what I do best, but to save my own damn hide.

Little does he know he’s in for the fight of his life.

He tilts his head, watching me as if he can hear my resolve, before he stands.

Of course he’s tall. Legs like tree trunks. Hands as big as fucking dinner plates. None of that lankiness I’ve seen from other men. A full-grown man where others are boys.

“Let’s get one thing straight, little witch.” His voice is low, soft—almost gentle. “There’s no hiding anymore. No more running. Nowhere else for you to go. No one to save you.”

Blah, blah, fucking blah. It’s what they all say. I roll my eyes and lift my chin in defiance, even as he looms over me. If I had a dollar for every mobster who thought monologuing in chest-beating grunts made him sexy or powerful, I’d be retiring in Hawaii by now.

I shrug. “Meh. You don’t know that.”

Unless my fairy godmother moonlights as a grifter.

I’m bluffing though. The people who would have saved me? They’d be here by now. I’m not so special that anyone would go out of their way to find me.

Stepping closer, he reaches through the bars. His finger brushes the cuff, slow and deliberate. The metal is cold, but his touch burns. My breath catches before I can stop it.

He notices. His gaze flicks to mine, unreadable. “I know everything about you, Anissa.” My name drips from his lips like a taunt. “Every alias. Every safe house. Every escape plan.”

Whatever. That’s what he thinks.

Gold glints on his ears. Little hoops. Why is that so damn sexy on a man like him? My eyes drift over the ink on his arms—Bratva, without question. The markings tell me rank and allegiance. High-level, but not a boss. He takes orders, but he’s not a pawn. More dangerous than either. He’s the kind of man they trust to make people disappear. To make sure they stay gone.

I can only assume my worst fear—the very reason I made a deal with the Irish in the first place—has finally come true. The Kopolov family has come to collect what’s owed.

But he isn’t one of the Kopolov brothers or the man I left at the altar. I don’t recognize him.

I’ve heard strange rumors about the man I was supposed to marry. Rafail Kopolov is the Kopolov family pakhan. I’m told he’s now married, which is a relief for me because I figured he’d be less inclined to come chase me. The McCarthys never shared details with me, and I didn’t want them because I figured the less I spoke of the Kopolovs, the better.

For a while, I thought Rafail wasn’t hunting me anymore. But a part of me always knew the reprieve wouldn’t last. Eventually, they would come. Not to reclaim me but to punish me.

But… this man isn’t Rafail.

He's younger, for one. Bigger, heavier.

I stifle a sigh and get myself together.

Okay, alright.

I know what to do here—if you’re out of your element, in danger, and in desperate need of more information and an escape route.

Rule number one: Play dumb.

"I have no idea who you are," I lie.

He tips his head to the side. "You're a pretty convincing liar. What's your pain level?"

Rule number two: Try to gain sympathy for the purpose of disarming.

“It’s alright, though I think you gave me a… what do you call it…”—I feign a lack of focus to lean into the drugged-up as fuck skit —“concussion.”

He crouches in front of the metal bars.

I pretend my pulse doesn’t race.

“Did you think I was such a danger to you that you felt it necessary to put me in a cage like an animal? Frankly, I'm honored."

"No, not at all. I'm just a kinky motherfucker and wanted to see what you’d look like behind bars.” He gives me a mirthless smile and a wink that sends my heartbeat between my thighs. “And no one can hear you scream in here.”

Kinky motherfucker.

Why do I have the literal worst taste in men? Why ?

“Locking me up doesn’t make you more powerful.”

His lips twitch, and his voice lowers. Calm. Deep. “Of course not. I don’t need bars for that.”

Heat rises in my cheeks. I wasn't prepared for that answer. "So, are you going to tell me who you are, or do I have to question it?"

"You're a smart girl."

Rule number three: Hold your ground.

I shake my head. “I’m not a girl, you condescending prick.”

He drags his eyes down the length of my body, and for the first time, I look down at myself. The shirt I was wearing is ragged, the frayed edges baring my breasts. It’s risen up, showing my torso, and the leggings I'm wearing are still taut around my legs and ass.

"My mistake; you're definitely not a girl."

“Glad we cleared that up unless you need a better flash of my tits, or are you good, big guy?”

His look grows feral. I can feel his low growl from here, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t affect me.

I swallow hard. I play a good game, but I’m human. A sex-deprived, twisted, also kinky, self-assured human.

I was a lot more afraid when I didn't know who was after me, and I feared that my mind was playing tricks on me. Now that I know I have been kidnapped and that I wasn't fucking it all up in my mind, I'm actually a little relieved.

I'm not staying here. If he were going to put a bullet through my skull, he already would have. No… Instead, he's put me in this fucking cage, drugged me, and is taking me to god knows where.

Yes, but I was born for this moment. I know exactly how to slip out of somebody's grip. I know exactly how to get away. I know how to cut a man's balls off, shove them down his throat, and then choke him out in his sleep. And this asshole has actually given me a reason to do that.

Yay me.

I didn't escape the clutches of my father and his fucking asshole minions—the worst, most painful experience of my life—or marriage to the Kopolovs and danger with the Irish, only to end up dragged back like a naughty little girl who ran away from home.

Nope. Not me.

So I'll bide my time, lean into this “I’m so drugged” shtick, and then, at my first opportunity, I'm getting the fuck out of here.

"Hungry?" he asks. Even though he's speaking English, he has a hint of a Russian accent.

"I could use a little water," I say in my most pathetic voice. I add in a little dry cough for the hell of it.

He takes a little bottle from beside him, twists the top off, and sticks it through the bars. But his hands are too damn big. He can't fit through while holding the water bottle. It actually pleases me to see the way he thinks about opening up my cage, as if the second he opens it, I'm going to flee.

I'm obviously hightailing it out of here, but I'm not so dumb to try and take him now. We could be airborne for all I know.

Still, I watch as he slides a key into a metal hook, unfastens it, and warily hands me the bottle.

"Um, my wrists?"

"Nice try. Do the best you can."

Fine then. He wants to play this game? I take the little bottle between my hands and make sure it's sloppy work. I slosh half of it across my torn top. The soaked fabric goes sheer, outlining my full (very nice, if I do say so myself) nipples. Some of the water gets into my mouth, and it does feel good. I wasn't lying; I am thirsty. I'm also hungry, but I don't give him the satisfaction. For all I know, he’ll poison the food.

Predictably, his gaze drops to the wet T-shirt contest in a cage as he leans in and takes the cuffs out with a grunt. He stares at me but doesn't speak for long minutes while I take my time observing everything I can. He wears a tank top, and the markings on his neck show me a few things. He's not just Bratva but high-ranking Bratva, for one. He spent time in jail for another. But there's no ink to indicate he's an assassin.

"I'm assuming you know the Kopolovs," I say. My tongue is thick, and my voice sounds strange. I close my eyes to make myself look half out of it. He doesn't answer but just watches me. "If you are, then you would know I have a deal with the Irish."

He nods his head almost amiably. "More accurately, you did ."

My heart thumps. What ?

"I'm sorry to tell you," he says in a tone that isn't sorry at all, "we've moved in and given the Irish a better deal. They don't need your services anymore."

"But you do?" I snap. This isn't fair. After everything I did for them, they're just going to ditch me?

"Do I have a use for you? Yeah, you could say that,” he drawls, his voice dripping with amusement.

I don’t flinch. He doesn’t own me. And the second I get a chance? I’m gone.

I’m almost sad I’m going to ditch his sorry ass. Could be fun taking the piss out of a guy like him, and I’ve been bored for a while. But I did not come this far only to be put back in a literal cage.

Asshole.

I’m going to play the long game. He might be motivated, but I suspect he’s done what most men have done—underestimated me. And since he obviously thinks he’s already caught his prey, it’s only a matter of time before I can make my move. Every man has a weakness. All of them. And this one, despite his control, is no exception.

A door opens, and someone stands on the other side. I’m momentarily blinded by bright white light. Okay, so we’re not flying, then, but in some sort of transport vehicle.

“Matvei.”

With a growl, he turns his back to me and snarls at his visitor. Ha! He doesn’t want me to know his name.

Matvei. Nope, definitely not one of the Kopolov brothers. I knew their names. But his name is unfamiliar to me. One of their friends? Associates? Hmm.

The Irish never kept me in the loop of what their plans were, and for my own safety, I kept my nose out of details. They gave me a job, and I did it, no questions asked unless I had questions that were directly related to my job.

I watch the way he moves, slow and deliberate, which makes sense for a guy of his size. Despite Matvei’s control, he still has a weakness. But I’ll wait.

"I'm a little nauseous," I say in a low whisper. "Can I have something to eat?"

He eyes me suspiciously, definitely expecting that I'm going to play him. Of course I fucking am.

"We'll get something to eat once I get you situated."

"Oh," I say with mock excitement. "Do you have a bigger cage for me? Or am I good enough that I'll get let out of my cage and maybe get a little fresh air? Spread my wings a little bit? Please, sir?"

He now has his eyes on me and doesn't respond. I'm a scrapper, but he's obviously larger than I am, and larger usually means slower. He’s the goddamn linebacker for the Bratva, too big to move with any speed, and either way, too damn proud to send someone else after me, or… this is personal.

Incapacitating a man this big takes precision.

I will not get a second chance.

He comes closer to me and bends. I draw in a breath, and I move. A quick jab to the throat, followed by a knee to the groin. I lift the water bottle and smash it against his skull. He stumbles, caught off guard, and he's so big that when I kick his kneecap, he falls hard. He reaches for me with a growl, but I have the key in my hand already.

Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm.

"You little bitch," he says. He almost grabs a fistful of my hair, but I quickly evade his grip and elbow him in the neck before I kick his groin. He could have grabbed me just now, could have manhandled me, but either he's afraid to break me or too surprised by my sudden movements. I take the water, splash it in his face, and when he turns and blinks on instinct, I dive out of the cage. I slam it, turn the key in the lock, and take a moment to gloat at the sight of him in there. He grabs my wrist straight through it. I bite down on his finger until I taste blood. He screams, shouting in Russian, but I shake my head at him. "Did you forget? Nobody can hear you screaming in here."

I smile at him. I've won this battle. I am so fucking out of here.

It was dirty, brutal, but effective. I make my way to the front as he curses at me from behind, yelling.

“Oh, honey. Settle down,” I purr.

Sure enough, there's a small latch that allows me to open the door from this holding place to where the driver sits. Outside this door, I see four armed men, but the dumbasses are staring at the entryway to the back, not this way. I have seconds to make a move. Right on the console, I see a faded leather wallet and a gun. I take both, slide out of the driver's seat, and then tuck myself beneath the largest wheel.

I can hear Matvei screaming and swearing from here, and I can't help but chuckle a little to myself. I blink at the bright sun overhead and assess my situation. We're in a gas station. Excellent. To my left, about six feet away, is a large pickup truck with bales of hay. All I have to do is hide there, and I have enough cash to bribe my way out.

I wait until there's a shout behind me, and I make my escape. They're going to look everywhere for me. I'm thankful I'm small and lithe. None of them think to look here. When a truck pulls up beside me, these guys aren't even pretending to be good guys anymore. They're scouring the gas station, looking for me with their weapons drawn.

D’awww. I’m so dangerous.

Dummies.

I shake my head, crawl unseen into the back of the cargo truck, and to my delight, find that it's loaded with junkie snacks for delivery. I open up a bag of cheese puffs, sit in the way back, and happily munch. Two minutes later, the cargo truck is on its way, and so am I, with orange-tipped fingers, stolen cash, and a gun at my side.

* * *