Page 56 of His Demands

He leans back, eyeing me with amusement mixed with something darker. "You clearly underestimate what people are willing to do under pressure. Ivan will come around; they always do."

I shake my head, crossing my arms defiantly. "Well, I’m afraid you're in for a disappointment. Ivan's a lot of things, but he's no puppet on a string."

He smirks, clearly enjoying this little game. "We'll see, Mrs. Stepanov. We'll see."

I sit there, trying to appear nonchalant, but my thoughts are of Ivan, our baby, and the fear of what could come next. But I'm not about to give Boris the satisfaction of seeing me sweat.

His earlier statement—that Ivan would do anything for me—echoes in my head. It sends a thrill through me, despite the grimy, unsettling surroundings. But I tamper down the flutter in my heart, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing that anything he says has any sort of effect on me.

I turn my gaze away, staring at the gaudy neon lights of the club.

I wrap my arms protectively around myself, thinking of the baby and how much I wish I'd told Ivan about it. The thought of him not knowing and facing so much danger without the knowledge that he’s going to be a father gnaws at me. So I make a silent vow to myself: as soon as I get out of this, as soon as I see Ivan again, I’m going to tell him.

After what feels like an eternity but is probably more like half an hour, I decide to make my move. I can't sit here passively, not when every second counts, not when there's a chance, however slim, that I could find a way out of this. The door to the bathroom catches my eye, a potential route to escape or at least to gather more information.

Trying to appear casual, I slowly stand up then perform a dramatic stretch. One of the men, startled out of his growing complacency, lurches to his feet, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. I roll my eyes at him, injecting as much disdain into my gesture as I can muster. Inside, my stomach is a chaotic flutter of nerves and fear, but I force myself to maintain a facade of confidence.

"I need to use the bathroom," I tell him.

To my relief they relent, albeit grudgingly. One of them nods toward the bathroom door, and I walk to it, my steps measured and deliberate. As I pass the door to the backstage area, I steal a glance, my mind racing with possibilities. There's got to be a back door, an exit they use for deliveries or emergencies.

The bathroom, a cramped space with flickering fluorescent lights, offers no escape. No windows, no hidden doors, just stark walls and a mirror revealing the tension and fear in my expression. I close the door partially behind me and peek through the crack, scanning the main room. The men seem relaxed, their attention diverted. It's now or never.

I quietly slip out of the bathroom, my heart pounding in my chest. The backstage area is just a few steps away. If I can sneak in there maybe I can find a way out. The musty smell of the club is stronger here, a mixture of perfume, stale smoke, and alcohol. I move as silently as I can, every sense heightened, every nerve on edge.

But luck isn't on my side. One of the men is sharper than the others and catches a glimpse of me attempting to sneak into the backstage area. His shout of alarm slices through the heavy air, and my instinctive reaction is to run. Adrenaline surges through me, fueling a desperate sprint toward what I hope is freedom.

The backstage area is a labyrinth of shadows and curtains, a confusing maze to someone unfamiliar with its layout. I can hear heavy footsteps behind me, closing in fast. Panic sets in; I'm running blindly, turning corners without thought, prey trying to outmaneuver its predator in unfamiliar territory.

He catches me easily, his grip like a vice around my arm. I struggle, trying to wrench myself free, but it's useless. He's too strong, too fast. I'm dragged back to the main room, my hope of escape crushed under the weight of his hold.

Boris looks at me, his expression a mix of disappointment and something darker, more menacing. His eyes are cold, calculating, and I feel a shiver run down my spine. There's a sense of danger about him that goes beyond physical threat, a psychological edge that makes him even more frightening.

"Where exactly did you think you were going, little girl?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous.

I muster as much defiance as I can, despite the fear gripping me. "Trying to get away from you," I snap back, meeting his cold stare head-on.

He chuckles dryly, a sound devoid of any actual humor. "There’s nowhere to run. You're in over your head, sweetheart."

I glare at him, struggling against the iron grip of the man holding me. "Let me go! You won't get away with this."

His smirk widens. "Oh, but we already are. Your little escape attempt? Just a minor inconvenience. You should realize by now, there's no getting away from us."

He nods at the man holding onto my arm, a silent command that sends a wave of dread through me. Before I can react, I feel a sharp blow to the back of my head. The world spins, pain exploding in a bright flash of light. My legs buckle, and darkness rushes in to claim me. The last thing I feel is the hard floor rushing up to meet me as I fall into unconsciousness.

Chapter 35

Ivan

In the dimly lit study of my brownstone, Fyodor and I are poring over a map of the city, our fingers tracing potential hideouts where Boris could be holding Julie. Each location we consider seems less likely than the last. My gut tells me we are looking in the wrong places.

Fyodor leans back in his chair, a frown on his face. "None of these spots fit Boris’ style."

I nod, frustration gnawing at me. "He's not following his usual pattern though. He's being unpredictable, trying to throw us off, and that makes him more dangerous."

Fyodor's gaze sharpens. "Are you even considering that job Boris asked you to do? Just to get Julie back safely?"

I shake my head vehemently. "Hell no. If I give in it'll prove that he’s in control. I can't let that happen."

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