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But I’m so disoriented that for a second, I can’t recall why I need my wits about me. Not when the earth won’t stop spinning.
My stomach turns, drawing my attention downward, and my adrenaline spikes as panic overwhelms me. The baby. Around the airbag obstructing my movement, I try to feel my stomach. My heart pounds a mile a minute as I fear for the baby’s safety. Tears sting my eyes at the thought that it might not be okay. An impact hard enough to trigger the airbags would have to be traumatic to something so small and vulnerable.
I release my seat belt, searching for a way out of my claustrophobic death trap.
Then, with a grating, metallic sound, my door is wrenched open, giving me instant space. Cool air floods the vehicle, making me shiver as I gulp fresh air. And once again, panic floods me as I look up at the man who’s come to my aid.
Strong hands grasp my arms with bruising force, and I’m hauled from the car with ease.
“Let me go!” I scream, terror gripping me as I’m set on my feet.
Brilliant headlights flood the space around me, piercing into my eyes and making them water as my head throbs. I squint, fighting the sudden blindness. Someone forces fabric between my teeth as the man who hauled me from the ruined Audi binds my wrists together with rope. The unyielding nylon bites into my soft skin as he yanks it tight with unnecessary force.
Screaming for help, the sound muffled by my gag, I struggle to break free, kicking out and twisting in their grip as best I can. But I’m still dizzy from the accident, and it takes nothing for me to lose my balance. I stumble, collapsing against the bent door of my father’s car.
But before I hit the ground, iron arms grasp me. Flinging me unceremoniously over his shoulder, the big man carries me like a sack of potatoes to the back of their SUV. His friend opens the trunk, and I shudder at the sight of an oversized dog crate, empty and waiting there for me.
As soon as I’m set back on my feet, I try to make a run for it, but their hands are everywhere, their strength impossible to escape.
“She’s a feisty one,” the big man observes.
“Come on, hellcat,” the other commands, humor in his tone as he catches me around the waist and throws me roughly against the bumper.
His Russian accent catches my ear, and I shiver violently as I realize what must be happening. No doubt, I’m being taken for ransom—or worse. Because I’m a Sakharov. And every few years, a Bratva rises to question my father’s rule. It’s why he’s always so insistent on guards accompanying me when I leave the house.
No one’s ever tried anything, though.
Until now.
While I had assumed that with the men locked in the basement, the worst of the danger must be past, apparently, I'd made a grave error in my judgment.
The men shove me inside the crate, quickly locking me inside, then they close the trunk door a moment later. Icy fear trickles through my veins as their roaring engine comes back to life. It drowns out my muffled cries for help.
As I watch the wreck of my father’s Audi fade into the night, I wonder if this will be the last night of my life.
Pressing my eyes closed, I fight the tears that threaten to fall. I curl around the tiny life I pray is still safe and unharmed inside me. I feel so utterly helpless to protect my child, and more than anything else, the thought of losing something so precious terrifies me.
8
MISHKA
Biting back a groan, I sit up and cradle my throbbing head in my hands. The heel of my palm presses against a tender knot on my left cheek bone, and I flinch. The blood pounding through my brain could be the worst hangover of my life—but the memories that flood back to me remind me of what really happened.
My back aches from hitting the pavement. My ribs and face pulse with fresh bruises from getting my ass handed to me, and as I look around the familiar guest room of Viktor’s penthouse apartment, sunlight trickles in through the blinds.
I glance at the clock to confirm it’s nearly noon.
I’ve been out cold for most of the morning.
The guys must have dragged me here after our fight last night, which I suppose means we won. No thanks to me.
The events of the night replay in my mind, and my stomach revolts as the blond bastard’s words come back to me with ringing clarity—How can you live with yourself, working with the enemy who destroyed your Bratva? Your brother would be ashamed to see the whipped dog you’ve become.
As far as I know, I’ve never seen that guy before last night, so I haven’t the faintest idea how he could know so much about me, my brother, or the Nezhit. But a dark sense of foreboding comes with the knowledge that someone else out there knows my secret.
It feels as though, in one night, the fates have turned against me. And why, I can’t say. I don’t know how to move forward from here.
My whole purpose in surviving these past few months has been to avenge my brother’s death.
