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I lift my T-shirt and wince at the purple and black bruising on my stomach and ribs. I take a deep breath, and though it hurts like a motherfucker, I’m pretty sure my ribs are just bruised and not broken. As long as I’m not bleeding internally, I should be good. I also take a moment to check my gunshot wound, hoping the attack didn’t cause it to start bleeding again. It seems to be fine. Thank God for small miracles.
The door to the room opens with an ominous click, but I don’t leave the bathroom. Stupid, I know. It’s always better to fight in a larger space if possible. I’m already at a disadvantage with my small stature. Right now, though, I don’t have it in me. It’s not going to matter if I’m in here or out there. I’m in no shape to fight, and they know that.
With a sigh, I slide my top back into place and limp into the bedroom I woke up in just minutes ago. I pause in the doorway, and my eyes widen in surprise. I don’t know exactly who I was expecting, though I had been trying to narrow down the list. This man, however, was most definitely not on it.
“What the fuck?” the very pissed off Russian curses as he rushes toward me.
I flinch at his rapid approach, and I hate myself a little for it. Sensing that, he hesitates when he reaches me. With another curse in Russian, he reaches out and wraps his arms around me, tugging me to his chest. It’s the softness that breaks me. I was ready for anything, but apparently not kindness. The tears fall before I can stop them. Once the emotional barricade is breached, I can’t turn them off again.
A sob rips free from my chest as I grip the front of his shirt and feel myself fall apart in the arms of a man who very likely came to kill me. But that begs the question: why would the head of the Russian Bratva come himself and not send one of his minions? With a deep, shuddering breath, I pull back and look up into the warm, amber eyes of Maxim Popov. We might know what each other looks like—with friends in common, I made sure to do my research, and I’m sure he did the same—but we’ve never met before. Right now, I can’t think of a single reason he would be here unless it’s to get rid of me.
“Are you here to kill me?”
He frowns before lifting one of his large hands and trailing it gently over the swell of my cheek. I hiss in pain, making him growl. “I was told to come here, and I would find a gift,” he says in Russian-accented English.
Now it’s my turn to frown, even though it hurts. “A gift?”
He cocks his head, his eyes moving over my face before they drop to my lips. “You know, I got a call from Aslanov telling me his woman and her sisters were looking for you. So imagine my surprise to find you here, like this.”
“Where is here?” I look around the room and try to step back, but Maxim doesn’t let me go.
“You are in Tyumen Oblast.”
“Wait, I’m in Russia?”
He looks confused for a second, this time letting me step back when I try to free myself of his hold. “You didn’t know this? What the fuck is going on?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.”
“Tell me what you remember.”
“I was at home when intruders tripped the alarm. I saw two of them on the screen coming through the gate and managed to get the drop on them. I didn’t account for a third man. Rookie mistake,” I mutter, pissed at myself. “The asshole hit me with a gun, I tried shooting him, but he hit me again, and that’s all I remember until I woke up here. Jesus, Carver is going to lose his mind.” I use Calix’s nickname just in case he has enemies here listening in. I refuse to believe that anything has happened to him. The man has nine lives.
“Where is home, and who is Carver?”
“Home right now is Greece, and Carver is my husband.”
His eyes widen a fraction, but other than that, he shows no outward reaction. “So, someone kidnapped you and brought you here to me. That’s a long journey, a journey you have no memory of. You must have been drugged too. How do you feel?”
“I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus, but otherwise, I’m fine. If I was given something, it has already worked its way out of my system.”
He walks toward the door before pivoting and heading back toward me. “Why tell me you were a gift? Why involve me at all?”
I shrug. “Who told you I was a gift?”
He pauses, looking at me, his eyes narrowing a fraction. “An old friend,” he answers evasively. Just like that, we slip back into our roles.
“Right, well, good luck with that, but I need to go home.”
“You do, yes. You have people worried about you.”
“No, not to the States. I can’t go back there just yet. It’s not safe.”
“Not safe for who?”
“Not safe for anyone. I won’t put my girls at risk. I’d rather die than let that happen.”
He sighs and strips out of his jacket, which he tosses on the bed. He walks back over to me and takes me by the arm before leading me back into the bathroom.
