Sinful Embers (Vegas Bratva Kings #2)

1. LEIGH

Chapter 1

LEIGH

The cold seeps into my bones, dragging me out of a groggy haze. My head throbs like someone took a hammer to it, and the bitter taste in my mouth makes me gag. My throat feels raw, like I’ve swallowed sandpaper. Blinking against the dim light, I try to make sense of my surroundings, but my thoughts remain sluggish, wrapped in a fog I can’t shake.

Where the fucking hell am I?

The cot beneath me is stiff, barely better than lying on a slab of concrete. The scratchy blanket draped over me does little to shield me from the icy air. I push myself up, wincing as my muscles scream in protest. My pulse quickens as I take in my surroundings.

This isn’t a room. It’s a goddamn cell—straight out of my nightmares.

A metal table dominates the center, its surface gleaming under the dim overhead light. Restraints hang from the sides, thick leather straps like silent threats. Chains dangle from the ceiling in the far corner, their shadows dancing on the rough brick walls. My stomach churns.

The dim wall lights illuminate a toilet, hand basin, and crude shower at the foot of the cot. There’s no privacy, no barrier—just sitting there for anyone to see upon entering. Across the room, there’s a door with a small observation window and four chairs line the wall next to it, like some twisted waiting room for an audience I don’t ever want to meet.

I shiver, tugging the blanket tighter around myself. The cold bites at my bare feet, and the rough fabric of the green scrubs I’m wearing rubs uncomfortably against my skin.

Green scrubs?

I glance down at myself, and the sight jars me.

What the crap?

Fragments of memory push against the fog clouding my mind: Radomir’s hands on me, his lips trailing fire over my skin, his weight pressing me into the mattress. I remember the pleasure, the intensity of it, and falling asleep tangled in his arms.

But I didn’t fall asleep like this.

My pulse quickens as the realization strikes me. Someone dressed me.

Revulsion churns in my gut, and I tug at the neckline of the scrubs, their texture coarse and alien. My gaze darts around the room again, taking in the restraints, the table.

Shit, I’m not wearing scrubs—it’s a fucking prison uniform.

I feel like I can’t breathe as panic surges through me and the blanket suddenly feels suffocating. I shove it off, swinging my legs over the side of the cot. The motion tugs painfully at something heavy on my ankle, and a clink of metal makes my heart lurch.

I look down.

A fucking chain.

The cuff around my left ankle is thick, cold steel. It’s attached to a long chain—a leash.

A wave of déjà vu crashes over me, unearthing something dark and distant.

I’ve seen this place before.

A hazy memory shimmers at the edge of my mind, just out of reach. Chill blades run down my spine as my panic rises. My chest tightens with the oppressive weight of being trapped. Instinctively, I yank at the cuff, my breath coming faster, but the metal doesn’t budge. It just digs into my skin, leaving a sharp ache.

Think, Leigh. Think.

But my head feels too heavy, and my throat too dry to focus. My gaze lands on the metal table. A bottle of water sits on its surface, the clear liquid catching the light. Beside it, three books are stacked neatly, topped with a small card.

I squint at the books...

From where I’m sitting, they look like some of my old songbooks. My breath catches. That can’t be right. My old songbooks—except the one I use—are packed away in boxes Radomir has stored somewhere.

What the crap, is going on?

I clutch my head, trying to remember how I got from Radomir’s bed to here. My last memory is falling asleep in his arms. My eyes widen as a voice echoes in my mind: Your phones been cloned! Nikolas’s warning slams into me.

A jarring gasp escapes my lips. Could Radomir have discovered my plans to leave him? Does he know about Matriarch Records?

I shake my head. No, he couldn’t have. Even if the estate is bugged, I didn’t say anything about the Gambler’s Cross out loud.

But I did talk to Sabrina and then Nikolas.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck!

My chest constricts, each breath shallow and strained. Radomir must think I was planning to double-cross him, that I intended to escape—even after the agreement we made before we were married.

My still-bruised, painful left hand from punching my father throbs as I lift it to find my ring finger bare. Radomir must’ve removed my engagement and wedding rings to make a statement— shit, he does think I went back on our agreement.

He still thinks I’m going to run.

Taking in the room once again, my eyes widen with fear as I realize I must be in a dungeon—one of Radomir’s dungeons!

I try to swallow, but my mouth is so dry it feels like I’ve been eating sand. My head throbs as I eye the water bottle. It could be drugged, but my throat is parched, and I need something—anything—to drink. I turn and look at the facilities at the end of the cot—there is no way in hell I’m going to drink toilet water, or from that basin as there’s no telling where the water from it or the shower comes from.

Again my eyes land on the bottle of water on the table and a bitter laugh escapes me because if Radomir wanted to drug me, he wouldn’t need to disguise it. Besides, he probably already drugged me to get me in here without waking up. If he wanted to keep me drugged he would’ve done it already.

I stand cautiously. The chain rattling as I shuffle to the table, the sound slicing through the silence like a blade. My hand trembles as I grab the water bottle, twisting it open. The seal cracks, reassuring me it hasn’t been tampered with.

The water is cool and crisp as it slides down my throat cutting through the dryness. I take a few sips, just enough to soothe the ache.

As I recap the bottle, the books and the card draw my attention again.

The card on top bears my name in neat calligraphy, like a place card at a grand wedding. Beside it sits a small plastic box. I pick it up, finding two aspirin tablets inside. My head feels like it’s two sizes too big, and for a moment, I’m tempted to take them.

I pick up the card. The neat, handwritten message chills me: Maybe these books will help you remember.

Remember what, exactly? I wonder.

My brow furrows as icy fingers twist around what feels like every nerve ending in my body, making my mind scream at me to step away from the books and the table.

But I ignore my instincts and don’t give into the temptation to move away. Instead I read the footnote at the bottom of the card: The aspirin is for the headache from the chloroform.

The word hits me like a blow.

Chloroform.

I was drugged with fucking chloroform.

I stagger back, my knees buckling as the weight of the realization hits. The pounding in my skull, the metallic taste coating my tongue, the songbooks that only Radomir had access to—it all clicks into place.

Fragments of memory surface: Fredrik’s warning about how they subdue targets with the shit, Dolph’s smirk as he casually mentioned how Radomir’s men always keep chloroform on hand.

My breath hitches.

My pulse thunders, each beat driving the truth deeper, cutting like a blade..

Oh my God. It is Radomir!

But then, a fleeting thought cuts through the whirlwind of fear and rage, leaving an ache I can’t ignore.

What if I’m wrong? What if he’s looking for me right now?

The idea lingers for only a moment, but it’s enough to send cracks through the certainty I cling to.

Doubt and hope war within me, a cruel tug-of-war that makes my chest tighten. But I can’t overlook the chloroform or the fact that he’s the only one who could’ve had access to my song books. Anger swells again, replacing all doubt.

No, it has to be him.

And he’s trapped me down here like a rabid dog on a leash.

A tremor rolls through me, ice and fire colliding in my veins.

My hands clench, my nails biting into my palms as rage swells in my chest, hot and blinding. He drugged me. Stripped me of my rings and tossed me in this cell like I’m some kind of traitor.

“That fucking bastard,” I whisper, my voice shaking with fury.

Radomir must’ve found out about my plans to leave him sometime after I fell asleep and then without so much as a thought, threw me in here.

I glare at the books but don’t touch them. My gut twists with instinctive revulsion that I don’t quite understand as they’re my books... still something about them feels wrong—dangerous—like traps baited with cheese to catch a rat.

I shake the feeling away and turn away from them. Right now, survival is my priority.

The chains drag noisily scraping against the floor as I pace, adrenaline surging through me, heightening my senses. Every detail of the cell feels like a piece of some twisted puzzle. My head snaps toward the door with its little rectangular glass peephole in it. I move toward it, but the chain tightens and yanks me to a stop a few feet past the table.

“What the fuck?”

I test the length of the chain, finding I can’t move anywhere near the door or the chairs lining the wall beside it. But I can get to the toilet and shower. Panic resurges making my head even more painful, so I decide to take the aspirin and gulp them down before I talk myself out of it.

I need a clear non-painful head to find a way out of this place. And I will, somehow get out of here.

I take a deep breath calming my nerves. Radomir must think he’s won. But he doesn’t know me—not really. He keeps underestimating me, and my father’s voice suddenly springs into my head:

Never let anyone see all of you, Leigh, keep parts of you to yourself. That way people will always underestimate you and won’t expect what’s coming.

As his voice fades away I suddenly find myself grateful for all the training my father put me through. He taught me to never give up even when I feel all hope might be lost— where there’s a will, there is always a way.

My eyes land on the chain around my ankle, and I tilt my head as I assess it more thoroughly. It’s heavy and polished to a cold gleam, its edges smooth but unyielding. The links are thick, industrial-grade steel, each one as thick as my thumb. There’s no rust, no sign of wear—this wasn’t thrown together on a whim.

I bend over and trace the cuff’s edge with my fingers, feeling its seamless surface. A faint line runs along one side, barely visible, but unmistakable. My stomach tightens as recognition floods through me.

I know this kind of cuff.

My father had shown me one year ago, sitting me down like he was teaching me how to ride a bike. But this was no father-daughter bonding moment. He’d laid out a series of restraints—zip ties, handcuffs, rope, even duct tape—and taught me how to escape them.

“ A good con knows the tools of the trade ,” he’d said, his tone oddly serious. “ And a smart one knows how to beat them .”

One of the cuffs he’d shown me back then looked just like this one. Pressure-locked, he’d called it. No hinges, no screws—just a tight fit and a locking mechanism buried deep inside.

“ This ,” he’d said, holding it up like a trophy, “ is the worst. You need special tools to crack it open, and those tools are never lying around when you need them. ”

The memory of my father’s voice rises once again: “ If you ever see one of these on you, Leigh, it means someone isn’t planning to let you go. Not easily, anyway.” His eyes had gone distant, and he’d muttered. “It usually means whoever put it on you, isn’t going to let you go alive.”

A shudder rattles through my bones at the thought of those last words and how that was one of the few times he’d looked at me with something resembling sincerity. His eyes had darkened, his mouth a grim line. At the time, I’d thought he was just being dramatic. But now, staring at this cuff, the weight of his words sinks in.

“Maybe, not fucking easily,” I whisper, my voice low and bitter. “But I will, do it.”

The chain scrapes against my ankle as I shift, the cuff biting into my skin. It’s snug but not tight enough to cut off circulation. Whoever put this on me knew what they were doing. They wanted me restrained, not injured. That realization sends a fresh wave of anger surging through me.

My jaw tightens as I scan the room with fresh eyes. Every detail feels calculated, designed to trap me both physically and mentally. The table, the books, the card—they’re all pieces of a sick game—one I have a feeling I’ve been in the middle of before.

But I won’t play by their rules.

I inhale deeply, trying to steady my pounding heart. My father’s voice echoes again, this time less grim and more practical: “ Every trap has a weakness, kid. You just have to find it. Keep your cool, and don’t let them know you’re looking .”

Keep my cool.

I glance back at the cuff, my fingers brushing over the seam. It’s smooth, seamless, but there’s always a way out. The question is whether I can find it before Radomir or one of his goons comes back.

The thought sends a jolt of fear through me, but I shove it aside. Panic won’t help me now.

I shuffle back to the cot, the chain dragging against the floor. Each step is a reminder of my captivity, but it only fuels the fire burning in my chest.

Radomir thinks he’s got me cornered. He thinks he’s in control.

But he doesn’t know me.

I sit down, the cot creaking under my weight, and tug the blanket around my shoulders. The cuff is cold against my skin, a constant presence, but it doesn’t scare me anymore. If anything, it pisses me off.

I may not have the tools to break this chain yet, but I have something just as powerful.

Determination.

Leaning back, I let my eyes drift shut, my mind racing with plans. I’ll get out of here, chain or no chain. And when I do, Radomir will learn the hard way that Leigh Dalton isn’t someone you can trap and forget.

He wants to play games?

Fine.

But he’s about to find out that I’m the one who always wins.

A distorted voice suddenly cuts through the silence.

“Hello, Leigh. Nice to see you’re awake and have taken the aspirin.”

My eyes snap open, and I bolt upright instantly searching for the source, my gaze darts to the small glass window in the door—it’s empty.

I scan the rest of the room, my heart hammering in my chest.

Jesus, I’m being watched.

My skin prickles and I try to find where a camera or speaker could be hidden but there is no obvious signs—not even on the roof.

The voice comes again, distorted, a chilling rasp that slithers through the silence.

“If you need light reading, try one of the books I left for you. It might bring back some memories… memories you lost ten years ago. Wouldn’t it be nice to fill in the holes about your past?”

A shiver runs through me, leaving my blood ice-cold. The thought of regaining those lost memories hits harder than I expect, twisting in my gut as fleeting images of darkness and pain flash before me. My pulse races, and dizziness washes over me, drowning out the unsettling sense of being watched. The idea of reaching into those memories terrifies me for reasons I can’t quite place.

I try to steady myself, as thoughts turn over in my head: Why would Radomir or his men bother disguising their voices? What could they gain by me regaining my memory?

But then, another thought hits me like a punch to the stomach— what if the person who has me here, isn’t Radomir?

My eyes widen. Oh my God—have I been kidnapped?

Panic surges through me, and my head spins as confusion clouds my mind. The room tilts, and the cold fingers of oblivion begin to creep toward me.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, squeeze my eyes shut, and force myself to take slow, deep breaths, trying to push through the overwhelming sensation that my body is melting into the air around me. I can’t let myself pass out—not now.

If this isn’t Radomir holding me captive, then who the hell is it? Fear grips my chest, setting every nerve on edge. How could they have taken me? Each new question only makes my heart race faster.

“Oh, no…” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Has something happened to Radomir?”

I fight for control, trying to calm myself, to think of another explanation—maybe Radomir was drugged, and that’s how I was taken. But my attempts to rationalize only fuel the panic, which rises up inside me, mingling with my fear. The cold hands of darkness grab me, pulling me under.

As my body turns limp, a faint, mocking laugh echoes through my mind. Then, a voice that has haunted my nightmares whispers in the depths of my consciousness, “ I told you I’d come for you, Leigh. ”

Tumbling into oblivion a terrifying names spills into the darkness with me: The Iceman .