23. Katarina
KATARINA
T he SUV moves silently through the darkness. I sit in the back seat, Erik beside me, his body rigid with tension. He hasn't touched me since we left the compound. Hasn't even looked at me.
I should feel relieved. In less than thirty minutes, I'll be free from captivity. Back with my own people. Away from the man who kidnapped me, bound me, dominated me.
So why does my chest feel like it's collapsing?
Erik shifts beside me, his knuckles white against his thigh. I catch the reflection of his face in the window—jaw clenched, eyes forward, the perfect soldier. Nothing like the man who held me mere hours ago, who whispered broken confessions against my skin.
My father waits at the exchange point. The man who tried to force me into marriage with Anton Petrov. The man who kidnapped an innocent woman to get me back.
“Is this Stockholm Syndrome?” I whisper to myself, too quiet for anyone to hear.
The clinical term makes it simple. A psychological response. My brain's way of coping with trauma. That would explain why my heart races when Erik enters a room or why his touch unravels me.
But it doesn't explain how I felt before he took me. That first night at the gala, the electricity when our eyes met.
The SUV slows as it approaches the abandoned warehouse district. My time is running out.
“Erik.” His name catches in my throat.
He turns, finally looking at me. His dark eyes hold something raw and unguarded—something I've only glimpsed in our most intimate moments.
“Don't,” he says, voice rough.
My fingers find him in the darkness between us. “Is it real? Any of it?”
His hand turns, gripping mine with desperate strength. “Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
The warehouse appears ahead, floodlights cutting through the night. Cars wait—my father's men. Time's up.
The SUV stops. My breath catches in my throat as Erik's hand tightens around mine one last time before pulling away. The absence of his touch leaves me cold.
“We're here,” Viktor announces, unnecessary words filling the sudden silence.
I stare at the warehouse ahead, its industrial bleakness a fitting backdrop for what feels like an execution. Not of my body, but of something else entirely—something that bloomed in the darkness between enemy lines.
“Look at me,” I whisper to Erik.
He turns, his face a carefully constructed mask, but his eyes—God, his eyes betray everything. Pain. Desire. Resignation. The muscle in his jaw twitches as he swallows.
“This is how it has to be,” he says, voice barely audible.
I nod, even as something shatters inside me. “I know.”
What's wrong with me? This man took me against my will. Held me captive. And yet the thought of walking away from him tears at my insides like barbed wire. I'm returning to my freedom, my company, my life. I should be relieved.
Instead, I'm fighting tears.
“Your father—” Erik starts.
“Don't talk about him.” My voice breaks. “Not now.”
Erik reaches out, his scarred fingers hovering near my cheek without touching it. The restraint in that gesture hurts more than if he'd turned away completely.
“Katarina.” My name on his lips sounds like a prayer and a curse all at once.
“Time to move,” Nikolai calls from outside.
I close my eyes, memorizing the scent of him—sandalwood and something uniquely Erik. When I open them again, I force steel into my spine.
“I won't say goodbye,” I tell him.
His eyes darken. “Then don't.”
The door opens, letting in the cold night air. Someone takes my arm helping me out. Each step away from the SUV feels like walking through quicksand, my body rebelling against the distance growing between us.
I don't look back. I can't. If I see him watching me walk away, I might shatter completely.
Dmitri's grip on my arm is firm but not painful as he guides me into the warehouse. His face is carved from stone, eyes fixed straight ahead, and jaw set with determination. This isn't about me—it's about the woman he loves.
“Walk,” he commands when I hesitate at the threshold.
The warehouse smells of rust and motor oil. Our footsteps echo against concrete floors as we move deeper inside. I keep my chin high, refusing to show fear despite the hammering of my heart.
“She's unharmed,” Dmitri says to someone ahead. “Every agreement has been kept on our end.”
And there he is. My father.
Igor Lebedev stands tall in his tailored suit, his silver hair combed back immaculately. The epitome of power and control. His eyes—the same blue as mine—lock onto me with an expression that almost resembles concern.
“Katarina.” His voice carries across the space between us. “My daughter.”
The word 'daughter' in his mouth turns my stomach. This is the man who tried to sell me to Anton Petrov like livestock. The man who kidnapped an innocent woman to force my return.
“Where is she?” Dmitri demands, his voice tight with barely controlled rage.
My father gestures, and a door opens. A guard escorts a woman forward—Natasha. Even frightened and disheveled, she carries herself with dignity.
She's being held tightly by one of my father's guards, his fingers digging into her arm.
Despite her disheveled appearance, I can see she's beautiful, with long, dark hair and striking features.
Her lip is split, and there's a darkening bruise on her cheekbone.
My stomach turns at the sight. Whatever my father's issues with me, this woman didn't deserve to be caught in the crossfire.
But what catches me off guard is her expression. Instead of relief at seeing Dmitri, pure shock crosses her face. Her eyes dart frantically between me and Dmitri, widening with what looks like... betrayal?
I don't know this woman. I've never met her before. But something in her devastated expression makes me feel like I'm witnessing something deeply personal falling apart.
“You... You took her,” Natasha says to Dmitri. “Everything Igor said was true.”
The words hang in the air like smoke. My father shifts slightly, his posture straightening with something that feels uncomfortably like satisfaction.
Dmitri doesn't respond. His face remains expressionless, carved from marble. Only the slight flare of his nostrils betrays any emotion.
“Did you enjoy manipulating me?” Natasha demands. “Was any of it real, or was I just another pawn in your war with Igor?”
As Dmitri steps forward, dragging me with him, the fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across his angular features. I watch as Natasha instinctively backs away.
“ Kulkolka ,” he says softly. “Things aren't what they seem.”
But Natasha's expression doesn't soften. Her eyes dart between Dmitri and me, and I can see the wheels turning in her mind. Whatever my father told her has shattered something between them.
Her gaze fixes on me, studying my posture and my proximity to Dmitri. I stand perfectly still, not wanting to make this worse for either of them. This woman is caught in a war she never asked to join, just as I was.
A firm hand wraps around Natasha's throat from behind. My father's laughter echoes through the room as Dmitri's face transforms. His expression shifts into something cold and dangerous, his stance changing subtly.
“Look how he reacts.” My father's breath hits Natasha's ear. “The great Dmitri Ivanov, undone by a museum curator.”
Natasha's eyes remain locked on Dmitri's hand remain wrapped around my wrist—a casual gesture he probably doesn't even realize he's making. I can see her putting the pieces together, drawing conclusions about what my presence here means.
The color drains from her face. Her eyes move between Dmitri and me, cataloging details and making connections. The woman is clearly intelligent—I can practically see her reassessing every interaction she's had with Dmitri through this new lens.
“You're just like him,” she whispers, her voice rough. “Both of you treat people like chess pieces.”
Dmitri's jaw clenches, but he doesn't deny it. His hand remains on my shoulder, perhaps unconsciously, as he faces this confrontation. The weight of it feels heavier now that I understand its significance to Natasha.
I remain silent, an unwilling witness to this moment of truth between them. Whatever they had—whatever they thought they had—is unraveling before my eyes. And somehow, I've become evidence of Dmitri's betrayal.
I see my father's smirk fade as I step forward into the open space between the two groups. The warehouse air reeks of oil and rust, making my stomach turn.
“Release her first,” my father demands, his hand gripping Natasha's arm tightly.
“Together,” Dmitri counters, his voice calm but edged with steel. “On three.”
I move with measured steps, my heart hammering against my ribs. One. Two?—
One of my father's men raises his gun from the shadows.
“Down!” Dmitri shouts, shoving me roughly toward my father as he dives for Natasha.
Chaos erupts in an instant. The warehouse explodes with gunfire, bullets punching through metal and concrete all around us. I stumble forward, nearly falling as my father's hands grab me, pulling me away from the center of the firefight.
“This way!” he barks, dragging me toward a metal door at the back of the warehouse.
I twist in his grip, catching a glimpse of Dmitri yanking Natasha behind a shipping container as shots ping off the steel. More of my father's men emerge from the shadows, weapons drawn.
“Katarina, move!” My father's voice cuts through the chaos as he shoves me through the doorway.
A bullet ricochets off the metal frame inches from my head, the sound deafening in the enclosed space. I duck instinctively, heart in my throat.
The heavy door slams shut, cutting off my view of the warehouse floor. My father pushes me down a dimly lit corridor, his grip bruising on my arm. Behind us, the gunfire continues, muffled by concrete and steel but no less terrifying.
“You promised them a clean exchange,” I gasp.
“Plans change,” he replies coldly, pulling me toward a service exit where I can see a black SUV waiting, engine running.
As we burst through the exit into the night air, I cast one final glance back at the warehouse, wondering if I'll ever see Erik again.