No. I can’t think about that now. Can’t fall apart. Yakov would maintain focus, would analyze the situation, find a way out. I need to do the same.
“He’s not dead,” Pablo says, noticing my gaze. “Not yet. Though my men did enjoy testing the limits of his Bratva training.” He leans closer, his breath hot against my ear. “They’re looking forward to exploring yours next.”
A shudder runs through me that I can’t suppress. Eight of Pablo’s goons occupy the lodge, moving like shadows through rooms once meant for family gatherings. Each carries the casual menace of men acquainted with violence, comfortable with pain. But none frightens me like the calculated cruelty in Pablo’s eyes.
“Whatever you want from me, you won’t get it,” I say, keeping my voice steady despite the fear clawing at my throat.
He laughs, the sound oddly gentle. “Oh, you misunderstand, Doctor. You’re not the prize.” He traces one finger along my jawline, stopping to grip my chin roughly. “You’re the bait.”
Understanding dawns with sickening clarity. “Yakov,” I whisper.
“Very good.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Your lover made a critical error when he chose you over our arrangement. Did he tell you about our history? About the deals we made before his…reformation?”
I remain silent, but Pablo doesn’t need my participation to continue.
“Your Yakov was quite effective—brutal, efficient. Then he developed a weakness.” His gaze finds mine. “You.”
The blow comes without warning, the back of his hand connecting with my cheek with enough force to whip my head sideways. Pain explodes through my skull.
“That was for making him forget our agreement,” Pablo says conversationally, as if commenting on the weather. “The next one will be for making him believe he could be something other than what he is.”
I taste fresh blood, feel the throb where my lip has split. But the physical pain is nothing compared to the terror building inside me. Not for myself, but for Yakov. I know him. Know he’ll come for me without hesitation, walking straight into whatever trap Pablo has set.
“He’ll kill you,” I say, meeting Pablo’s gaze with defiance I don’t entirely feel. “When he finds me like this, there won’t be anything left of you to bury.”
Pablo’s smile widens, genuine amusement dancing in his eyes. “There she is. The woman behind the professional facade. The one who fell in love with a killer.” He leans closer, studying me like a fascinating specimen. “Tell me, Doctor, what does that say about you? That you warm the bed of a man with so much blood on his hands?”
I think of Yakov, of his hands tracing my face in the morning light, of his rare smiles saved only for me, of the vulnerability in his eyes when he speaks of Anastasiya or Damien. Of the man beneath the reputation that follows him like a shadow.
“You don’t know him at all,” I say, meeting his stare.
“I know everything about him,” Pablo counters, voice hardening. “I know what he’s capable of when properly motivated.” He gestures to one of his men, who approaches with a blade that glints in the fading light. “Let’s see if we can provide that motivation, shall we?”
The knife is cold against my throat, pressure without breaking skin. Yet.
“Ever seen a Colombian necktie, Doctor?” Pablo asks casually. “Quite effective. The throat is cut here,” the knife traces a line under my jaw, “and then the tongue is pulled through the wound. Like a necktie, you see? Very elegant.”
My heart hammers against my ribs so violently I’m certain he can hear it. But I keep my eyes on his, refusing to look away even as tears threaten.
“My uncle perfected the technique,” Pablo continues. “He could keep the subject conscious throughout most of the process. Imagine that, watching your own tongue emerge from your throat.” He signals his man to withdraw the blade, patting my cheek almost affectionately. “Something to think about while we wait for your knight in bloodstained armor.”
He checks his watch, a gaudy gold thing that catches the light. “He should be here within the hour. I do hope he doesn’t disappoint. For your sake, of course.”
Pablo moves away to confer with his men, leaving me alone with my fear. I close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. Think, Mila. Think. There must be something. Some way to warn Yakov, to help Aleksander, to get us out of this nightmare alive.
My thoughts are interrupted by Pablo’s making a phone call. His side of the conversation confirms my worst fears: he’s speaking with Yakov, taunting him with threats against me. I strain to hear, to gather any information that might help.
”…one hour to reach the lodge. After that, I start sending pieces of her back to the Bratva as a message…”
The room spins around me as terror and rage battle for dominance in my chest. Yakov will come. Not with an army, not with careful planning, but immediately. Recklessly. Trading his life for mine without hesitation.
“He’s so predictable,” Pablo says, pocketing his phone. “Love does that, makes even the most brilliant strategist act like afool.” He gestures to his men. “Take positions. Our guest of honor will be arriving soon.”
As they disperse, he returns to me, knife in hand. This time, it’s not for show. The blade slices through the sleeve of my blouse, laying open a shallow cut along my arm. I bite my lip to keep from crying out.
“Just a sample,” he explains, wiping my blood from the blade with a handkerchief. “To properly set the mood for his arrival.”
The pain is sharp, immediate, but manageable. What’s unbearable is knowing Yakov will walk into this trap. I’ve become his weakness in a world where weakness kills.
