Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
brI
I’m kneeling on the cold tile floor of the hotel bathroom again, one hand braced against the porcelain, the other tangled in my hair as my head hangs over the toilet.
I retch, my stomach heaving violently, and I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep the sound in. The last thing I need is for him to hear this. The walls are thick, but not thick enough for the kind of noise my body wants to make.
My throat burns. My eyes water. I gag again, dry this time, my stomach twisting in on itself like it’s trying to turn me inside out.
I flush quickly, even though there’s barely anything there, just to cover the sound. Then I stay still, breathing through my nose, counting slow and quiet until the wave passes.
My reflection stares back at me from the mirror above the sink when I finally lift my head. Pale. Drawn. Eyes a little too bright. I look like someone who hasn’t slept enough, who’s been under too much stress.
I look like someone hiding something.
This isn’t the first time. It’s not even the fifth. It’s every morning now, like my body has decided on a routine it doesn’t care to explain to me. I press my forehead briefly to the cool porcelain of the toilet and swallow hard, forcing everything back down.
I haven’t needed tampons. Or pads. Or anything.
That thought hits harder than the nausea.
Alexei provides everything I need before I ever ask. Clothes appear in the closet. Food arrives without me ordering it. Medication shows up on the nightstand if I so much as mention a headache. If I needed something like that, he would notice immediately.
But I haven’t.
And my period is never late.
Never.
I push myself up slowly, legs trembling, and rinse my mouth at the sink. I keep the water low, careful, quiet. I spit, then rinse again, scrubbing my tongue until the sour taste fades.
It’s been two months.
Two months since my last period.
My hands grip the edge of the counter, knuckles whitening as the math starts running through my head even though I don’t want it to.
Blade and I weren’t careful. Not once. Not even a conversation about it. We were just… together. Like time was something we could outrun. Like the world wasn’t already sharpening knives around us.
The memory tightens my chest until it hurts.
I don’t know if I’m pregnant.
I don’t dare find out.
I won’t risk asking for a test. I won’t risk anything that might make Alexei curious, anything that confirms a truth I don’t know how to survive yet.
But my body feels different. Heavy. Sensitive. Unfamiliar. And every morning it betrays me a little more.
I wipe my mouth carefully, then splash cool water on my face and straighten, practicing calm in the mirror. I wait until my breathing evens out, until I look like myself again. Or at least like the version of me he expects.
Every day, I’m waiting for him to realize.
Waiting for his gaze to sharpen. For that slight pause before he speaks. For the moment he decides this is something he gets to own too.
I rest my hand briefly on my stomach, fingers splayed, heart pounding.
If there’s something growing inside me, I don’t know how to protect it.
I don’t even know how to protect myself.
I flush one last time, just for noise, then open the bathroom door and step back into the hotel room like nothing happened.
Like my body didn’t just tell a secret I’m terrified he’s about to hear.
I sit down on the edge of the bed and take a slow drink of water, forcing myself to swallow past the lingering sour taste in my mouth. I keep my face neutral, my movements controlled, even when another wave of nausea rolls through me hard enough that my fingers curl into the sheets.
I breathe through it.
In.
Out.
Slow. Quiet.
I will not let it show.
Alexei hasn’t been cruel to me. That’s the worst part. Every day he’s gentler, more attentive, like he’s slowly turning down the volume on the monster he knows I expect him to be. He notices when I’m tired. When I don’t eat enough. When my arm aches. He adjusts, accommodates, anticipates.
It makes my skin crawl.
I don’t encourage it. I’m careful not to lean into his touch, not to soften my voice, not to give him anything he could mistake for interest. At the same time, I don’t pull away too sharply either, because I don’t know what happens if he thinks I’m rejecting him outright.
So I exist in this careful middle space. Polite. Quiet. Contained.
The room around me looks like something out of a magazine.
Designer clothes hanging neatly in the closet.
Shoes lined up in perfect pairs. Purses displayed like art.
Even the luggage is expensive, sleek Louis Vuitton pieces sitting against the wall like I’m someone who chose this life instead of being dragged into it.
Everything is the very best.
Maybe I should feel lucky.
That thought slips in uninvited, and I hate myself for it immediately.
Maybe this is my life now. Maybe this is what survival looks like. Maybe I’m supposed to accept it, let the sharp edges dull, let myself be reshaped into something that fits beside him without resistance.
No.
I can’t do that.
I don’t love him. I never will. And whatever he feels for me isn’t love either, no matter how softly he says my name or how carefully he makes sure I’m comfortable.
I can’t be myself with him. I can’t speak freely.
I can’t laugh without calculating what it will mean. I can’t exist without being watched.
And then there’s the question I’m too afraid to say out loud.
What happens when he finds out?
If I’m pregnant.
If this nausea isn’t just stress.
If there’s a baby growing inside me that belongs to Blade.
My chest tightens until it’s hard to breathe.
Alexei hates the Iron Reapers. Hates what they represent. Hates Blade most of all. Blade is everything he wants destroyed, everything he wants erased, and the idea of me carrying his child feels like a fuse waiting to be lit.
I don’t know what he would do.
I don’t want to find out.
My hand drifts to my stomach again, instinctive and protective, and this time I don’t pull it away right away.
I can’t stay here.
Not for me.
For my baby.
I don’t know how yet. I don’t have a plan. I don’t even have a direction. All I know is that I need to get away, to disappear from this gilded cage before it closes completely.
I take another careful breath and straighten my shoulders, schooling my face into calm before he comes back into the room. I will survive this. And I will find a way out.
Alexei is on the phone when I come out of the bathroom, and I know immediately what that means.
Quiet.
Invisible.
I move carefully, each step measured, and sit on the edge of the bed with my hands folded in my lap like I belong here and I’m not listening to every word.
My stomach still rolls, but I keep my face calm.
Neutral. He glances at me once, just to make sure I understand the assignment, then turns back to the window.
He’s speaking Russian. Low. Controlled. The kind of tone that says he’s in charge even when he isn’t raising his voice.
I don’t understand every word, but I understand enough.
My name comes up.
Not Bri. Not even my full name. Just something possessive. Casual. Like an object everyone in the room already knows belongs to him.
There’s laughter on the other end of the line.
Actual laughter.
It makes my skin prickle.
They know he took me. They all know. No one sounds shocked or concerned or even curious. It’s treated like a joke. Like a prize. Like something impressive he pulled off and now gets credit for.
I stare at the carpet and focus on breathing through my nose while my chest tightens.
He turns slightly, pacing now, and I catch pieces. Iron Reapers. Blade. Damage. Pressure. I hear Blade’s name clearly, followed by something sharp and ugly that makes my stomach drop.
More laughter.
I feel small. Exposed. Like I’m standing naked in the middle of a room full of men who don’t see me as human.
The call finally ends. Alexei lowers the phone and looks at me, studying my face like he’s checking for cracks.
“Time to go,” he says calmly.
My pulse jumps. “Where?”
“Boat docks,” he replies. “We’re meeting someone.”
Of course we are.
He reaches for his jacket and gestures for me to stand. I do, automatically, slipping my shoes on without being told. He brings me everywhere now. Meetings. Dinners. Walkthroughs. Exchanges I pretend not to understand while absorbing everything.
I am an unwilling participant in all of this illegal shit.
He never leaves me behind anymore. Never sends me away. I’m always right there at his side, visible and silent, a reminder to everyone in the room of what he’s capable of taking and keeping.
He likes that.
As we head for the door, I catch my reflection in the mirror. Expensive clothes. Perfect hair. A woman who looks like she belongs beside him.
No one would guess I’m trapped.
No one would guess I’m terrified.
He places a hand at the small of my back, guiding me forward, and I force myself not to flinch.
Another meeting.
Another reminder.
Another step deeper into his world.
And somewhere inside me, beneath the fear and the nausea and the rage, a small, steady voice keeps whispering the same thing.
Watch.
Listen.
Remember.
Because if I’m going to get out of this, it’s going to start with knowing exactly how he operates.
Even when he thinks I’m just standing quietly at his side.
The boat docks are quiet in a way that feels wrong.
Warehouses loom on all sides, big concrete beasts with rusted doors and faded company names painted over again and again. The water laps softly against the pilings, the sound almost gentle, like it doesn’t know what happens here at night.
We were here yesterday.
And the day before that.
We’ve actually been at the same hotel for more than a week now, which is new. Alexei doesn’t stay anywhere this long unless something big is happening. Something that needs hands-on supervision. Something he doesn’t trust anyone else to manage.
That realization settles heavy in my chest.
I stay where I’m told, a few steps behind him, silent and still, my face calm even as my heart hammers. The smell of salt and oil and old metal clings to the air. Men move around us with purpose. Russians on one side. Cartel on the other.
The exchange is quick and efficient. Crates get opened just long enough to show what’s inside. Weapons. Money. Product I don’t want to identify too closely because I don’t need that kind of knowledge lodged in my brain.
I keep my eyes down. I don’t react. I don’t exist.
One of the cartel guys glances at me anyway. Then again, longer this time. His gaze is sharp, suspicious.
He says something in Spanish, jerking his chin toward me.
Alexei answers without even looking at him.
Another cartel guy steps closer, eyes hard. He switches to accented English. “She shouldn’t be here.”
I feel every pair of eyes shift to me.
Alexei finally turns, slow and deliberate, and the temperature drops.
“Shut the fuck up,” he says calmly.
The cartel guy stiffens. “This isn’t smart.”
Alexei steps into his space, voice low and lethal. “What’s not smart is questioning me.”
Silence stretches tight as wire.
The cartel backs off. They finish the exchange fast after that, engines starting, doors slamming. Their vehicles pull away one by one, disappearing down the dock road like nothing just happened.
For half a second, I think that’s it.
Then the first gunshot cracks the night open.
Shouting erupts. Another shot. Then another. Bullets tear through the air, sparks jumping off metal, glass shattering somewhere behind us. Men scatter, yelling in Russian and Spanish and English all at once.
Alexei swears viciously in Russian and grabs my arm hard enough that pain shoots up to my shoulder. He doesn’t look back. He just drags me with him, boots pounding on concrete as we run.
I stumble but keep moving, heart in my throat, ears ringing from the noise. He hauls me toward the dark SUV parked near the edge of the lot, shoving me forward as another gunshot explodes close enough that I flinch despite myself.
The back door flies open.
He pushes me inside and slams it shut, then rounds the vehicle, already pulling his gun. The engine roars to life. We’re almost gone. Then the back door is ripped open again. I scream before I can stop myself.
Blade is standing there. Gun raised. Arm steady. Eyes locked on mine like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. For a split second, everything freezes. The docks. The gunfire. The noise. It’s just him. And then his gun tilts slightly. Right at me.