“We have better girls,” Vlad says as I approach. “But if you like...you get to know her a little better, no?”
The other man mulls over the prospect of owning me. “All right.”
“Excellent!” Vlad claps and lets out a hearty chuckle. “You”—he snaps his fingers—“take him in the back.”
Those five words teleport me into the past.Take him in the back.Suffer for twenty minutes. Earn your keep. Do it again. Back. Fuck. Money.
Anything to avoid a beating.
“Are you deaf?” Vlad slaps me on my ass, snapping me into action.
I woodenly reach for the blue-eyed man’s hand. The wrong hand. He draws back, clutching his arm to his chest. He extends the opposite hand, however. When he finally stands, he towersover me. And he smells. Like vinegar. Or something more chemical in nature. Ammonia?
His shoulder collides with mine, jarring my precarious balance and cutting the thought off. He’s impatient.
Taking his lead, I start forward, pulling him after me.
“Enjoy,” Vlad tells the stranger, his voice conveying a warning to me at the same time.
Don’t screw up.
The threat chases me down the long, winding hallway, where faint moans and grunts come from behind a row of doors, many closed. A lone bouncer inclines his head toward the only open doorway.
I know, even before I freeze over the threshold, which room will be free. An agonizing pinch of nostalgia strikes again, ripping through my rib cage.Home sweet home.
My old prison has seen some renovations. Piotr’s opted for a darker decor nowadays. The dark-gray walls reflect the glow cast by silver sconces affixed above the bed. It takes up the most space—a custom size that allows him to “entertain” more than one girl at a time. Two oak nightstands bookend either side, and one holds another infamous artifact from my past. Round. Silver. It’s a basin probably meant to adorn some fancy dinner table. Piotr used it as an ashtray—usually. Some nights, it became his makeshift weapon. Vlad must want to impress this guest if he’s letting him have his tryst in here.
It’s cold. My teeth slam together as goosebumps rise over my arms. I left the bustier somewhere on the barroom floor. Along with my pride. My sanity. My career.
No more detours down memory lane. I have to getout. Find Anna. Flee. My thoughts race to form a plan as I turn to face the man following in my wake. My eyes go to his waist, searching…Bingo.I sigh in relief. He’s wearing a belt—black leather with a silver buckle. I reach for it, forcing my lips into a charming smile.
“Let me help you with this,” I purr.
Then I’ll strangle him with it. Not kill him. Maybe. Just stun. Buy more time. Get to Vlad andmakehim tell me where Anna is…
“Wait.” He closes the door and cuts those piercing eyes in my direction.
I don’t find an angel in them now, and my feet propel me back against the wall without requiring any input from my nerves. It’s instinct, one my brain can’t reconcile. Fear ofhim?
“Let’s just cut to the chase,” he says, his voice alarmingly soft, reinforcing my unease. “I know you’re a cop.”
CHAPTER THREE
CHLOE
Think.The need hammers against my skull. If he really is one of Vlad’s lackeys, then he’ll call for help at any moment. I can’t let that happen. Desperate, I scan the room for a lamp or another item I could use as a weapon.There. Piotr’s prized ashtray is within my reach, a poetic sort of irony. I shift toward it, clinging to the wall. Just my fucking luck, the man follows.
“I’m no cop,” I lie. Miracle of miracles, my voice doesn’t shake. How in the helldidhe know? “I’m not—”
“You came herewitha cop. Don’t tell me that’s just a coincidence.”
“What?” Dread knots my stomach. He has to be lying. Grey doesn’t make dumb mistakes. His truck was unmarked. He wasn’t even in uniform. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“Cut the shit.” His hand strikes the wall near my head, and the resulting bang snaps my nerves to attention. “Let’s say I know a little birdy who warned me that a woman was headed my way. Average height. Thin. Red wig. You ditched the wig for some reason, but I know you’re her.”
My lungs are on fire. I’ve been holding my breath. “How?”
“You don’t have a mark on you. At least…”
