21. Katarina
KATARINA
T wo days. Erik has vanished for two whole days without a word—again. My skin prickles with anger and something else I refuse to name as I pace the compound like a caged animal.
The gym doesn’t help. Neither does reading. The walls of my gilded prison close in with each passing hour.
I corner Viktor in the hallway outside the kitchen, his hulking frame blocking the light from the windows. “Where is he?”
Viktor’s face remains impassive, like I asked about the weather rather than his boss. “Who?”
“Don’t play stupid. Erik. Where did he go?”
“Not your concern.” He shifts his weight, subtly positioning himself to block my path. “Stay in the authorized areas, Ms. Lebedev.”
“He can’t just—” I clench my fists at my sides. “After everything, he can’t just disappear.”
“He can do whatever he wants.” Viktor’s eyes narrow slightly. “As can the rest of the Ivanovs. You’d do well to remember that.”
The dismissal in his tone makes my blood boil. “So, I’m supposed to sit here like a good little prisoner while he?—”
“Yes.” One word, final and cold.
I storm past him, shoulder-checking his massive frame even though it’s like hitting a brick wall.
My fury carries me through the compound, frustration mounting with each step.
It’s not like I expected anything from Erik—we’re enemies, for god’s sake—but this disappearing act after everything we’ve shared feels like a slap in the face.
I’m rounding the corner toward the library when I collide with someone. Strong hands steady me before I can fall.
“Whoa there.” Alexi’s voice is was lighter than Erik’s, but with that same hint of an accent.
I jerk back, surprised to find one of the elusive Ivanovs. “Where the hell is your brother?”
Alexi raises an eyebrow. “Hello to you, too.”
“Don’t.” I step closer, invading his space. “Where is Erik? Why did he disappear again? Is this some kind of sick game you all play?”
Something flickers across Alexi’s face—concern, maybe, or calculation. It’s hard to tell with these men.
“Actually,” Alexi says, a strange smile playing at the corners of his mouth, “you don’t need to worry about my brother’s whereabouts anymore.”
I cross my arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” he continues, leaning against the wall with casual indifference, “that you’ll be going home soon. Back to Daddy Dearest.” His eyes glitter with amusement. “The arrangements are being finalized as we speak.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. “What?”
“You’re being returned to your father. The situation has... evolved.” Alexi watches my face carefully, clearly enjoying my reaction. “The Ivanovs no longer require your presence here.”
My chest tightens painfully. “When?”
“Midnight.” He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Don’t look so devastated. I thought you’d be happy about returning to your precious freedom.”
I struggle to keep my expression neutral, but the effort makes my jaw ache. Alexi seems to be feeding off my distress, his smile widening slightly as he studies me.
“Does Erik know?” The question escapes before I can stop it.
“Of course. Who do you think made the arrangements?”
The betrayal cuts deeper than I could have imagined. After everything—the vulnerability, the moments shared, the secrets exchanged—he couldn’t even face me himself. I’m nothing but a transaction to be completed.
“I see,” I manage, my voice unnervingly steady despite the storm raging inside me.
“Did you think it was something else?” Alexi tilts his head. “That my brother developed feelings for his captive? How tragically romantic.”
I want to slap the smirk off his face, but more than that, I want to understand why Erik would share our intimate moments with me only to discard me without a word. The anger bubbling in my veins is matched only by the hollow ache spreading through my chest.
"He should have told me himself," I say quietly.
"Perhaps," Alexi agrees, pushing off from the wall. "But you know how he is. Erik's always been more comfortable handling danger than dealing with emotions. He's been trying to protect you in his own way, even if it's misguided."
I walk away from Alexi, my legs somehow carrying me forward even as his words tear through me like shrapnel. Each step echoes in the empty hallway. Two days. Maybe three. Back to my father.
The kitchen is empty when I arrive—small mercies. My hands shake as I yank open cabinets, searching until I find what I need. Erik’s private stash of whiskey sits on the top shelf, expensive bottles lined up like soldiers. I grab the Macallan 18, the seal already broken.
No glass. No ice. I unscrew the cap and take a long pull straight from the bottle. The liquor burns all the way down, igniting a fire in my chest that momentarily distracts from the hollow ache spreading through me.
Who cares what time it is? Erik certainly doesn’t care about anything related to me.
Another swallow. Then another. The burn lessens with each drink, replaced by a comforting numbness that creeps from my fingertips inward. I slide down against the kitchen island, the cool tile floor welcoming me as I cradle the bottle.
“Fuck you, Erik,” I whisper to the empty room, raising the bottle in a bitter toast.
Time blurs as the whiskey level drops. I think about the way he touched me as if I were something precious. The vulnerability in his eyes when he told me about his sister. All lies. Or worse—truth that meant nothing in the end.
My head spins pleasantly now, the sharp edges of betrayal dulled by alcohol. I laugh, the sound jarring in the quiet kitchen. How perfectly pathetic—drinking away my sorrows over a man who kidnapped me.
The bottle is half empty when I hear footsteps approaching. Heavy. Purposeful. I recognize them immediately, my treacherous heart speeding up despite everything.
I lift my eyes as Erik fills the doorway, his expression shifting from confusion to something darker when he spots me on the floor. The whiskey has loosened everything inside me—my limbs, my tongue, the tight control I keep on my emotions.
“Look who finally decided to show up,” I drawl, raising the bottle in a mocking salute. “Come to check on your package before delivery?”
Erik’s face hardens as he steps into the kitchen, closing the door behind him. “You shouldn’t be drinking that.”
“And you shouldn’t be avoiding me.” I take another defiant swig, the whiskey no longer burning but spreading warmth through my veins. “Your brother was kind enough to tell me I’m being sent home. When were you planning to mention it? After I was already in transit?”
Something flickers in his eyes—pain? Regret? I can’t tell anymore.
“It’s complicated.” His voice is tight and controlled.
“Bullshit.” I push myself up from the floor, swaying slightly. “You fuck me, make me feel things, then decide to ship me back to my father without even a goddamn conversation?”
Erik moves closer, reaching for the bottle. I jerk it away.
“Don’t touch me.” My voice breaks on the last word. “You don’t get to touch me anymore.”
“Katarina—”
“No!” The dam inside me ruptures. “Was any of it real? Or was it just a way to pass the time with your captive? Some sick game to make me vulnerable before you handed me over?”
He steps forward, backing me against the counter. The heat of his body so close to mine sends contradictory signals through my system—rage and desire tangling until I can’t separate them.
“It wasn’t a game.” His voice is raw. “None of it was a game.”
“Then why?” I hate the pleading note in my voice, the weakness I swore I’d never show.
His hands grip the counter on either side of me, caging me in. “They have Natasha Blackwood.”
“Natasha Blackwood?” I stare at Erik, confusion cutting through my whiskey haze. “What does that have to do with anything?”
The name rings a bell, but only faintly. A tall brunette I’ve seen at charity galas, always impeccably dressed. We’ve never exchanged more than passing pleasantries.
“Your father has her,” Erik says, his voice strained. “Took her three days ago as leverage against us.”
I shake my head, trying to make sense of his words. “I barely know her. Why would my father?—”
“She’s with Dmitri. My brother.” Erik’s hands drop from the counter, creating space between us. “They’ve been together publicly for a week or so now.”
The revelation stuns me. Natasha Blackwood with Dmitri Ivanov? I’ve been locked away in this compound, completely cut off from the outside world. Of course, I wouldn’t know about society’s newest power couple.
“So, this is all just... what? A prisoner exchange?” My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears.
Erik rubs a hand over his face. “It’s more complicated than that. Your father knows you’re here. He took Natasha to force our hand.” His eyes find mine, intensity burning through the alcohol-induced fog. “Sending you back to him isn’t a death sentence, Katarina. He wants his daughter back.”
“While Natasha...”
“If we don’t return you, he’ll kill her.” Erik’s voice drops. “Dmitri isn’t... he can’t lose her. And your father knows exactly how to hurt her.”
The pieces click into place. My father wouldn’t harm me—I’m too valuable as his legacy, his blood. But Natasha holds no such protection. She’d just be collateral damage in this war between families.
The realization hits me like cold water, cutting through the whiskey haze. Natasha Blackwood—a woman I barely know—would die because of me. Because of my father. For what? A power play between criminal families?
My fingers loosen around the bottle, and Erik takes it from my unresisting hand. The kitchen suddenly feels too bright, too stark.
“He’ll kill her,” I say, my voice steadier than I expected. “Just to prove a point.”
Erik nods, his face grim. “Yes.”
The alcohol-induced anger drains from me, replaced by a sick clarity. My father has always been ruthless, but this goes beyond his normal brand of cruelty. This is personal.
“I’ll go back.” I concede. “Of course I will.”
Erik’s shoulders sag slightly. “I was trying to find another way. That’s why I’ve been gone.”
I push off from the counter, steadying myself against the edge as the room tilts momentarily. “What other possible solution could there be? I’m his daughter. I’ll survive. I always have.”
And I have, haven’t I? Built my company, created my own identity, carved out independence despite carrying the Lebedev name. I’ll return to my life—meetings, innovations, and careful navigation of Boston’s tech scene.
But Natasha... she would simply disappear. Another body was never found, and another tragedy was blamed on accident or coincidence. My father’s specialty.
“When is the exchange?” I ask, straightening my spine.
“Tomorrow night.” Erik’s voice is quiet. “The exchange is set for midnight.”
I nod, staring at the floor tiles. “Well, then we should get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”
As I try to step around him, Erik catches my arm. “Katarina?—”
“Don’t.” I pull away, suddenly unable to bear his touch. “This was always going to end. At least this way, someone doesn’t die.”
The irony isn’t lost on me—returning to my father to save the life of a woman connected to the family that kidnapped me. The convoluted morality of our world would be almost comical if it weren’t so tragic.