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My heart skips a beat as I find a broad-shouldered silhouette filling the doorway.
“Have you been standing there this whole time?” The intense dark makes me feel the need to whisper. But I’m confused by why he didn’t knock or just come in to check on me, like he did the first time. “Mish?—”
I take a half-step forward, frowning as he remains silent, and out of nowhere, strong fingers wrap around my throat. I gasp, my heart breaking into a sprint as they squeeze with terrifying force, cutting off my oxygen and my voice all in one painful motion.
Choking, I scrabble at his fingers, trying to break their iron hold.
Stars dance behind my eyelids, threatening to obscure my vision, and as the dark figure forces me back into the bathroom, I catch a fleeting glance of his snarling face. Icy horror grips my chest, but it’s too late. The world around me fades, and I fall into darkness, my hands suddenly so heavy I can’t keep fighting.
34
MISHKA
My head pounds as if I have the worst hangover of my life, but I haven’t had a single drink tonight. I wonder if I might not have a mild concussion after the number of ass-kickings I’ve endured lately. I really need to rethink my defensive strategy if I’m going to keep putting myself in risky situations.
Groaning, I try to push past the throbbing headache as I return to consciousness.
It takes a minute for me to gather my senses. My rise from a deep, dreamless sleep is taking longer than usual, and the cobwebs seem to linger in my mind. The first thing I notice as the fog clears from my brain is that Alina’s warm presence is gone from the bed.
“Alina?” I mumble, tossing aside the covers and sitting up.
My feet hit the carpet, but I still feel disoriented, like I’ve lost my anchor without her presence.
The room’s too dark to make out where she went, so I reach across the empty space to turn on the bedside lamp. Light lances through my sight, intensifying the pounding ache in my skull, and I flinch. Closing my eyes, I press my fingers into the bone above them to try and ease the throbbing pain.
A soft whimper makes me freeze, and my heart skips several beats as a sense of foreboding washes through me. Dropping my hand, I force my eyes open and scan the open floorplan of my apartment.
Nausea rises in my throat at the sight before me—sitting in the middle of the room is Alina, bound to one of my kitchen chairs, a gag parting her teeth. She’s wearing nothing but my T-shirt, and though her ankles are tied to the chair’s legs, her knees press together, either to stop them from shaking or to protect her modesty.
Tears stream down her pale cheeks, and she looks petrified, her blue eyes wide as she pleads with me silently. My stomach turns at the gut-wrenching sight, and a sharp ringing fills my ears as I spot the knife pressed against her throat. My body tenses instinctively with my desperate need to protect her.
Tracking the blade with my eyes, I follow it up the arm of the man who wields it. I meet the gaze of the burnt bastard who kidnapped and terrorized Alina just days ago.
One milky eye stares at me blankly, but the other glints from the shadows created by the bill of his black baseball cap. The cold fury in that gaze turns my blood to ice. His disfigured features are twisted into a mask of silent fury. Silently, I kick myself for not hearing Alina’s distress immediately, for not coming to her aid before she became so precariously exposed.
Perhaps my brain is still in the process of waking, but I can’t seem to make sense of why he’s here. I mean, I understand why he captured Alina again. She’s Sergio’s daughter, and he wants to hurt Sergio through her. He said as much the last time he took her. But none of that answers the question of why he’s still in my apartment. It looks like he’s more than capable of forcing Alina to do whatever he wants.
My confusion escalates when I glance toward the alarm I set up at the door and find it’s been expertly disarmed. Who the hell is this guy, and how did he get into my apartment without a single sound?
“What are you doing here?” I ask, forcing my voice into a low, steady tone. I start to rise off the bed, ready to jump on him as soon as he gives me a window of opportunity.
“Ah-ah!” the man rasps, gripping Alina’s arm and pressing the knife closer to her throat in warning.
Alina inhales sharply, her body tensing as she tries to avoid the blade.
“Unless you want me to slit her throat, I suggest you sit down and do exactly as I say.”
The man’s voice is hoarse and ragged, a distinct sound that would be impossible to forget. And yet, something about him is strangely familiar—even with the deep scarring and the hat that covers his head, casting most of his face in deep shadow. I can’t place him, but I suspect I knew him before whatever tragedy turned him into a mass of melted flesh.
“What do you want?” I ask, slowly sinking back onto the bed. And at the same time, I shift my weight closer to the gun I tucked under my pillow after Alina fell asleep tonight. Just in case.
“I just want to talk,” the man rasps, sounding like a throat cancer victim.
The passive observation triggers a reminder that this must be Kryuger, the man in charge of the recent attacks on the Sakharov family.
“What could we possibly have to talk about?” I demand, keeping my movement imperceptible as I inch my hand farther under the pillow.
“I want to understand how you could betray your clan—your brother—so easily. It hasn’t even been a year, and you’re already sleeping with the enemy—literally.” His good eye flashes as his head snaps in Alina’s direction.
