I’m coming, sweetheart.
I promise.
Chapter 78
Margot
The sound of the door creaking open jolts me awake, but I don’t move. I keep my eyes shut and focus on breathing evenly. If they think I’m asleep, I might catch them off guard.
I hear heavy footsteps approaching. The second he’s beside the cot, I strike, jamming my elbow into his gut. He doubles over with a Russian curse, and I bolt. I don’t know where I’m going, but I know one thing.
I’ve been here too long. I have to get out.
I hit the hallway at full speed, the darkness pressing in as I run. I push myself harder, faster. Adrenaline drowns the ache in my underused muscles. I hear him behind me, gaining ground. At the end of the hall, I take a sharp turn and pray it’s the right way. I see it, an ascending staircase. I must be in a basement.No windows, no light, that tracks.
I make it two steps before he yanks me back by my hair.
“Stupid girl. You have nowhere to run,” he spits in my ear as he hauls me down.
Pain explodes across my scalp and tears burn behind my eyes, but I won’t let him see them. I won’t let him win.
He spins me to face him and slaps me so hard I hit the floor. “Try that again, and it’ll be worse,” he snarls.
He drags me by my hair and forces me up the stairs on all fours. My hands scramble to keep pace, so I don’t get slammed against the steps. The door at the top opens and light pours in, blinding me. I squint, blinking fast. I’ve been in the dark too long, at least a full day. Maybe more.
We move through the house, and when my vision adjusts, I’m stunned.
This isn’t a shack.
It’s a mansion.
A gaudy, overdone mansion, like somebody bought every expensive item they could find and threw them all together without a second thought.
Oil paintings hang beside photographs of street art. The furniture clashes with the rugs, which clash with the wallpaper. It’s messy. Flashy. Tacky. Ugly. The Bratva has no taste.
He pulls me up another flight of stairs and down another hallway. We stop at a door, and he knocks.
I finally take a good look at him. He’s more put together than the other Bratva goons I’ve encountered. For one, he’s bathed recently. He’s in a leather jacket and has all his limbs intact. He must outrank the others.
A muffled Russian command comes from inside, and we’re let in.
The office matches the rest of the house in its hideousness. An ornate Persian rug sits under an ugly, modern metal desk. Nothing matches. It’s disgusting.
Behind the desk sits a man old enough to be my father. His full head of hair, expensive suit, and friendly smile almost make him look distinguished.
Almost.
But I know better.
“Hello, Margot Peterson. I’m Viktor. Welcome to my home. I apologize for the method of your travel. I hope the accommodations have been acceptable,” he says in a smooth accent.
“I wasn’t a fan of the method, seeing as youkidnappedanddruggedme,” I reply, keeping my tone light. Non-confrontational.
“I do apologize. My men weren’t supposed to harm you. Those who did will be punished accordingly. Why don’t you take a seat.” I don’t believe him.
He gestures to the leather chairs in front of his desk.
I hesitate, and the man beside me shoves me forward.
