I hear voices, but I don’t understand the language. It sounds aggressive and harsh, the words clipped.
This is bad.
My fear increases until my body trembles, and a sickening feeling wells in my stomach.
Footsteps come in my direction, and I move back, causing the chain to rattle. I hear a man chuckle, and then he mutters something, making another man laugh.
The wooden door slams open, creaking before it bangs against a wall, and then I come face to face with two of the men who took me. There’s a deep scratch across the cheek of the one on the left, and it fills me with a sliver of satisfaction to know I hurt him.
“Wildcat,” he grins as he lets out a chuckle. The smirk on his face only makes his eyes look darker. Terrified, I stare at them.
He issues a command, and the other man unfastens the chain. He yanks hard, and it rips my foot from under me. Shrieking, the back of my head smacks against the tub, and then I’m dragged out of the bathroom and down a dank looking hallway. The walls have water stains all over them, and the air is stuffy.
My breaths explode over my dry lips, and panic rushes through me as I try to grab hold of something.
A rough tug makes the shackle bite into my skin, and it sends a cramping ache up my leg, ripping a cry from me.
Wildly, my eyes dart around, taking in the men, the kitchen, the table, chairs, guns, knife on the tabletop. I scramble to my feet, but a harsh slap sends me staggering to the side before I fall to the cold concrete again. My ear stings as I try to look everywhere at once.
“So this is his woman,” a man says as he gets up from where he was sitting by the table. He has an air of power around him, giving me the impression he’s the one in charge. Mid-thirties? Black hair, dark skin, lifeless eyes.
Crouching by me, he grabs hold of my jaw. His fingers dig into my skin as his eyes drift over me with a look of disdain. I’m instantly filled with revulsion, and I try to yank free of his hold.
His lips curl back, and he shakes his head. “Patetik.” His accent is thick and abrupt, reminding me of Russian.
“Tristan and Alexei will come for me,” I spit the words out. It’s the only hope I have with the dire situation I’m in.
I bring up the memory of Tristan’s face when the darkness takes over. How merciless he looks. His powerful body. His love for me.
Tristan will come, and he’ll kill them.
Every single one of these bastards is going to die.
My captor smirks and lets go of me with a hard shove before rising to his feet. “Let them.”
I watch as the man removes his watch, and then he lifts his chin at the two men who dragged me here. They come right at me, and grabbing hold of my arms, they yank me to my feet. I struggle against their grip on me, but it’s only a waste of energy.
A helplessness I haven’t felt before shudders through me.
Tristan.
The one who’s in charge sneers as he pulls his arm back, and I try to brace myself for the blow. His fist connects with my jaw, sending a sharp ache through the side of my face and skull. It feels as if my brain rattles, and my vision goes spotty. Sweat beads on my skin, and even though it was sweltering a second ago, an icy chill creeps over my skin.
Before I’ve recovered from the blow, his fist connects with the exact same spot. My mouth fills with blood, the copper taste exploding over my tongue. My vision goes black, and even my teeth ache.
My sight blurs as it comes back, and then he grabs hold of my aching jaw, his fingers digging painfully into my skin. He forces my face up until our eyes meet, and then he chuckles, “Beg for mercy.”
I don’t know where the bravery comes from, but I spit in his face, dotting his skin with droplets of blood.
I expect him to finish what he started, but instead, he begins to laugh while he pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket. He wipes my spit and blood from his face.
When his eyes lock with mine again, he actually looks impressed. “Now I understand why you’re his woman.”
He reaches for the back of a chair and drags it closer to me. “Sit.”
I’m shoved down on the wooden chair, but their hands keep a tight hold of my shoulders.
My eyes stay on the leader as he takes a seat at the table. Taking his time, he straps his watch onto his left wrist. His dark eyes drift over the ankle boots, jeans, and coral-colored sweater I’m wearing. “Remove the shackle.”