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“Ezra, please?—”
“You left, Valentina.”
My blood runs cold at the venom in his voice. He must blame me for all kinds of hell he endured once my father realized I was missing.
I can only imagine what tortures my father inflicted upon the man in charge of my protection. . . or keeping me inside a gilded cage.
Part of me has always known the truth, but I never wanted to look too closely. Having an armed guard at all hours of the day is a blessing, I’ve been reminded all my life. I’m so lucky that my family loves me enough to spare no expense at keeping me safe.
My breath catches as the knotted rope secures behind my back. Tears pool in my eyes. Ezra was always kind to me, but now. . .
I doubt there’s any trace of my protector left in him, and that reality hurts.
If he was ever really my protector at all.
Ezra reaches over me to snag one of his pillows, pulls the pillowcase off, and twists it into a thin rope. Shoving it between my teeth, he ties the ends into a knot behind my head.
I try to speak, but the gag makes it impossible. I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.
I’m sorry for leaving?
I’m not.
I made a mistake?
I sure as shit did, coming back here.
Forgive me?
There shouldn’t be anything to forgive.
Ezra lifts me by my bound wrists, shooting sharp pains through my arms and shoulders. Spinning me around, he shoves me in front of him toward the door. I stumble, but he catches my bindings and tugs me back upright. More pain rips through my muscles, and a single tear falls free.
I won’t let him see me cry. I won’t let anyone see me cry.
Still, my vision blurs, and it’s a constant battle to keep my emotions in check.
“We move,” Ezra grunts, “or I drag you.”
Shame fills my chest as I take small, uncertain steps out of Ezra’s room and into the creepy morgue. How was I even remotely attracted to him, past or present? What is wrong with me?
When I move too slowly, Ezra pushes me forward, his hand burning into my back.
“You know where to go,” he growls, “don’t you, lisichka?”
The pet name stings, the comfort it used to bring me twisting into something darker. But I keep moving, taking larger, more confident steps the more familiar the terrain becomes.
I do know where I’m going. . . but I have no clue what awaits me.
The doting father or the cruel pakhan?
Chapter 3
Andrei
Five years.
Time passed in a whirlwind of anger and hurt, hurt so deep that it surprised me.
