Some say my wish to bed her was only a contest. I’m not so inclined to agree. Yes, she was forbidden. Yes, she belonged to another man, but the thrill of the chase didn’t fade once I won the game. It was as strong and as addictive as the many times I noticed her watching me through hooded lids years before Nikolai gave her to me. Our relationship went further than fucking. I wanted Dominique for reasons no one will ever know, and they are why I refuse to sweep her death under the rug as my father has requested many times the past twelve months.
With that in mind, I redirect my focus to the purpose of Nikolai’s call. He wouldn’t reach out unless it is important. “What did Kostya hear?”
It’s most likely hearsay. Kostya is the equivalent of a Russian bitch. If he isn’t taking shit from one of the men around him, he’s starting it.
There’s not an ounce of humor in Nikolai’s tone when he answers, “That your father has had enough of you sowing your oats, so he’s arranging a wife for you.”
I try to speak, to say something, but I’m stumped. This isn’t the first time I’ve heard rumors like this. My father grew tired of my playboy ways long before I was a man, so it’s not the reason for my choking response; it’s the words Nikolai speaks next: “By the end of the month.”
“The end of the month?! To who?”
I can’t see Nikolai, but I can imagine him shrugging when a second ruffle sounds down the line. “Kostya didn’t go into details, only that he dropped her at the Yury compound thirty minutes ago.”
“He brought her here?” I look at the compound that is as cold as the anger draining my veins of empathy. “To Yurys?”
An agreeing murmur vibrates through Nikolai’s lips. “He said she was wearing a bar pendant necklace. He didn’t know if they’re her initials or her name, but it had ARI engraved on it.”
My heart does an elongated beat. “Ari? There’s only one Ari I know of—she died years ago.” I stop talking as excitement brews in my gut. “Unless he meant Zariah, daughter of Stepanov Volkov? She was occasionally referred to as Ari when we were kids. Could it be her?”
I don’t know why I’m asking questions—Nikolai is in the dark as much as me—but if my intuition is right, and the woman my father wants me to wed is Zariah Volkov, my night went from dull to interesting in under ten seconds.
I’ve known Zariah since I was a child. For years, she was the shy little mouse no one paid any attention to. Shortly before our families switched from friends to enemies, she vanished. No one has seen or heard from her in over a decade. At one stage, I tried to palm off her dark oval eyes and picture-perfect face as figments of my imagination. I did have long stints of drug use in my adolescence, so I brushed off any knowledge of her as a fantasy I conjured up during drug-fueled benders.
I would have stuck with that notion if her name hadn’t popped up during initial inquiries into Dominique’s death. Not only is Zariah’s name on my hit list of suspects responsible for Dominique’s demise, it’s at the very top.
And here I was thinking I’d have to lure her out of hiding to kill her. I had no idea she’d bring the fun to me.
Chapter 3
Zariah
Fear guides my steps when I’m shoved into a dark and isolated room. It’s as black as the sludge sitting in the bottom of my heart, and as cold as the sendoff I was given when collected by a stranger to face my fate alone. My middle-aged driver is the only person who has spoken to me the last two hours. The people around me understand Russian; they speak it as well as I do English—they just refuse to talk to me.
I don’t know if it is their fear informing their ignorance or mine. I swear my legs have never shaken as they are now. I’d feel stronger if I had my belongings. I’ve been stripped bare, my clothes removed from my body as quickly as my luggage was torn from my grasp. The windowless space they shoved me in is insulated from the bitterly cold weather outside, but my skin not hidden by my bra and panties still has goosebumps on it.
Even if I were covered head to toe in a thick fur coat, I’d still be cold, because it’s not the weather instigating my body’s responses, it is fear. I can’t see two feet in front of me, but I’m confident I am being watched. There’s a spicy yet sensual aftershave lingering in the air. It’s potent but almost undetectable since it’s shrouded by testosterone.
“M-Mr. Yury, are you in here?”
I hear someone suck in a deep breath—or are they stifling a chuckle?—when I brace my hands in front of my body to guide myself around the room. I’m seeking a light switch, although I’m not convinced I’ll turn it on once I find it. I’ve never been in these dark, moldy rooms all families in my industry have, but I know what they’re used for. No amount of bleach can hide the smell of death, and it’s the most pungent I’ve ever smelled in this room.
“Oleg? . . . Asher?”
You’d think I’d be more fearful of facing the kingpin of the Russian bratva than his son, but I’m not. I really hope it is Asher’s father delivering my punishment because he is known for quick, painless deaths. Asher. . . if the long stares he gave me when we were kids are anything to go by, he’ll prolong my torture for as long as possible. He’s always been a little barbaric.
I jackknife to my left when a shadow competes with the darkness closing in on me. I can feel my nerves getting the better of me, wanting to leap away from the plan of attack I talked myself into on the way here. I can’t let them win. If I don’t do this, Vaughn will take my place.
I refuse to let that happen. He is my little brother, and I pledged to protect him long before I realized my protection would come without the vast militia we had prior to my father’s downfall.
A grunt parts my lips when I crash into a large rectangular object. Although I’m in a space originally designed to be a bedroom, I’m reasonably sure the cool steel my hands are running over isn’t a set of drawers. More like a table used to house painful instruments.
Oh god. This is what I was panicked about. He’s going to torture me.
As my survival instincts overtake my panic, I search the table for an instrument to protect myself with. If I’m going to be brutalized for murdering someone, I may as well attempt it.
Before I can locate an item useful for my campaign, the freestanding cart is knocked over. I bumped into it in fright when someone whispered in my ear, “Do you really think that’s wise?”
I twirl with my fists held out in front of myself, certain the hotness of Asher’s breath hitting my neck means he’s standing within an inch of me. When my pivot awards me nothing but a severe bout of dizziness, I realize I am wrong. I’m certain it’s Asher, though. He may have only spoken six short words, but I’d recognize his voice anywhere. It’s thicker than I remember, but there’s no denying how it makes my heart rate accelerate. When we were children, it was a good acceleration. Now it’s more frightening than anything.
