Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Of course he’s alive. He has to be.
The gruff woman returns with a plastic bottle of water. She holds it where I can see it. She says something to the shaved-head man, and he frowns and gestures at my mouth. She lifts the bottle a fraction and speaks again, and this time it is not a request.
He shrugs as if the extra work pains him personally, then lifts my chin with a hand that smells like motor oil and cheap cologne. The woman slides two fingers along the knot at the back of my head and the gag loosens. She pulls it free and I breathe through my mouth, raw skin stinging where the cloth dragged. She tips the bottle to my lips, and I drink greedily, careful not to choke.
The sound of expensive shoes hits the catwalk, and everyone seems to straighten up. Whoever they’re waiting for has arrived. He takes his time coming down the stairs to the main warehouse, talking happily with his men as he descends. At least, I think he’s talking happily. It’s hard to tell in their language.
When he reaches me, he’s definitely smiling. He glances at my belly first and then at my face. I feel fear in a cold straight line down my back.
The woman steps forward before he can speak. She says two short sentences in Russian, both with the word beremenna sitting like a rock in the middle. He holds her gaze for a second too long then nods once. He answers with a phrase I don’t catch.
“You sit nicely,” he says in English, the accent smoothing the edges. “Good. We will have conversation, and you will not make it unpleasant.”
I let a breath slide out slowly. My heart is thudding like it wants out of my body but I breathe as steadily as I can. The woman steps aside but does not retreat. This matters. She is not a decoration. She watches him as closely as she watches me, and I file that away with the other parts of the map I’m building in my head.
The man stops two steps away, close enough for me to catch the quiet, expensive cologne, something that wants to suggest cedar and soap and wealth. Up close, he is older than I thought he would be. Lines press between his brows, a paler version of a frown that used to be permanent. His eyes are deadly and calm.
“You know who I am,” he says.
I decide the best course of action is to say nothing at all. I don’t want to give him anything he can use against Damien or me.
“Ah, I understand. You think this is story,” he says. “You think he is hero and I am villain. It is simpler for you that way.”
So he is Rurik, then.
“Tell me everything you know about him,” he says, voice still mild. “Then I maybe I let you live.”
I still say nothing, but he only looks amused.
“Are you scared of me?” he taunts. “I am very powerful man. Your Damien has been big problem for me.”
“I’m not telling you anything,” I finally growl, hoping I at least sound a little strong.
He laughs again, smirking. “You think you are his woman, but he has many women. He does not keep any of them.”
“You don’t know shit,” I say as calmly as I can.
But he only laughs back at me. He reads me too well. He must decide I still have too much fight in me, because he says something to the woman and leaves me alone. In fact, he leaves the warehouse altogether.
The woman leaves soon after, and it seems they intend to keep me here. The men left behind, go on about their business, most acting like I’m not even here.
I start counting to myself to occupy my brain. A minute goes by, then five. The warehouse clears out until it’s just me and two men sulking by the door. They’re clearly meant to guard me and make sure I don’t try to escape and from their relaxed body language and bored demeanor, they do not see me as a threat.
My head still aches from being slammed into the floor of the van, but otherwise I feel unharmed. I’m still hungry and tired, but nothing I haven’t survived before. And that’s exactly what I have to do. I have to survive. My baby has to survive.
Even if Damien is gone, and I pray he isn’t, I have to make sure that our child gets the chance to live. And to do that, I have to figure out how to get out of here.
“Hey,” I call to the men guarding me.
They look over, bored, then say something in Russian and start laughing.
“Hey,” I yell again. “I see they left the kids to watch the hostage while the men go do real work.”