30. Katarina
KATARINA
I ’m going to lose my mind.
Ten days of staring at these same four walls, and I swear the flowered wallpaper is starting to move on its own. The roses seem to mock me, their painted petals bright and cheerful while I rot in this pristine prison.
I pace to the window for the hundredth time today, pressing my palm against the glass that might as well be steel bars. The grounds stretch out below—manicured lawns and perfect hedgerows that once represented safety. Now they’re just another cage, wider but no less confining.
The meeting with Anton plays on repeat in my head like a broken record. His cold smile when he outlined my future. Close the company. Live on the estate. Breed his heirs.
“Fucking psychopath.” I kick the antique chair beside my desk, sending it spinning.
The worst part? The way he looked at me when he said he’d enjoy breaking me. As if I were already his property to damage.
I collapse onto the bed, burying my face in silk pillows that smell like lavender and imprisonment. My father chose this. Actually sat down with contracts and lawyers and sold me like livestock.
Erik would never?—
I punch the pillow harder than necessary. “Stop thinking about him.”
But I can’t. Even when I’m furious, even when logic screams that he’s the enemy, my mind drifts to those dark eyes and scarred hands. The way he looked at me like I mattered. Like I was more than just a pawn in some family chess game.
He saw me as dangerous. Capable. Worth talking to, rather than just talking at.
“God, I’m pathetic.” I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling. “Stockholm syndrome much?”
Three more days until the wedding. Three days before I become Mrs. Petrov and disappear into a life that isn’t mine.
I sit up, scanning the room for anything useful. The windows are sealed. The door’s locked from the outside. Even my laptop and phone are gone—confiscated the moment I got home.
Home. What a joke.
A sound from outside breaks through my spiral of self-pity. A deep, rumbling boom rattles the windows, sending birds scattering from the trees.
I freeze, listening.
That wasn’t thunder.
Another boom echoes across the grounds, followed by a sharp crack that makes my blood freeze.
Gunshots.
I launch myself at the window, pressing my face against the glass until it fogs with my breath. The decorative iron bars that once seemed quaint now block my view completely, cutting the grounds into narrow slices that reveal nothing useful.
“Come on.” I grip the bars, trying to angle my head for a better view. All I can see are fragments—a corner of the main drive, part of the fountain, and shadows moving between the hedges that could be guards, gardeners, or attackers.
More shots ring out, rapid-fire and close enough to make the windowpane vibrate. My heart hammers against my ribs as I strain to see anything, anything at all.
“What the hell is going on out there?”
I spin from the window and rush to the door, pounding my fist against the heavy wood.
“Hey! HEY!” My voice cracks from shouting. “What’s happening? Someone answer me!”
Silence from the hallway. Not even footsteps.
I press my ear to the door, holding my breath to listen. Nothing but my own pulse thundering in my ears and the distant sound of what might be vehicles or might be my imagination running wild.
My hands shake as I fumble through the room, searching for anything—a phone, a radio, a carrier pigeon. But of course, there’s nothing. Father made sure of that. No laptop, no cell phone, no connection to the outside world whatsoever.
“This is insane.” I rake my fingers through my hair, tugging at the roots. “I’m locked in here like some fairy tale princess while World War Three breaks out downstairs.”
The gunfire comes in bursts now, punctuated by shouts that are too distant to make out the words. Male voices are urgent and commanding, but I can’t tell if they belong to our security team or someone else entirely.
Is someone trying to break in? The Petrovs come to claim their prize early? Or maybe?—
I slam that thought down before it can form completely. False hope will only exacerbate the situation.
But as another explosion shakes the house and sends my jewelry box tumbling off the dresser, I can’t help the wild flutter in my chest that whispers: What if?
The gunfire intensifies, echoing through the house like deadly fireworks. I pace from the window to the door and back again, my bare feet silent on the Persian rug. Each shot makes me flinch, and the waiting is driving me insane.
“Come on, come on.” I press my palms against my ears, trying to block out the sound, but it’s useless. The chaos downstairs seeps through the walls like poison.
A particularly loud explosion rocks the house, and I stumble against the dresser. Picture frames rattle, and somewhere below, glass shatters. My father’s voice cuts through the noise—shouting orders, his tone sharp with authority and something else.
Fear.
Igor Lebedev, afraid? The man who built an empire on intimidation and violence is actually scared?
I move back to the door, pressing my ear against the cool wood. The shooting seems closer now, moving through the house instead of staying contained outside. My pulse hammers so loudly, I’m surprised the whole world can’t hear it.
Then—footsteps in the hallway.
Fast, deliberate.
My blood turns to ice. Those aren’t my father’s men. Our security team has heavy boots that announce their presence like a marching band. These steps are different.
The sound grows closer, and panic floods my system.
I dive behind the bed without thinking, pulling my knees to my chest and making myself as small as possible. The antique four-poster provides a decent cover, but if someone really wants to find me, they will.
My heart pounds so hard I’m certain it’ll give me away. I clamp my hand over my mouth, trying to muffle my ragged breathing.
The footsteps pause right outside my door.
A soft click reaches my ears—someone testing the handle. It’s locked. So next, I hear the unmistakable sound of metal against metal. Someone is picking my lock. The lock turns slowly, deliberately, like they’re being careful not to make noise.
I squeeze my eyes shut and pray to whatever gods might be listening. If it’s Anton Petrov coming to collect his bride early, I’m fucked. If it’s my father’s enemies looking for leverage, I’m dead. If it’s?—
The door creaks open.
I hold my breath and press myself deeper into the shadows behind the bed, every muscle in my body coiled tight as a spring.
Measured footsteps enter my room.
The footsteps stop just inside my room. One heartbeat. Two.
Then I hear it—low, rough, unmistakably familiar.
“Katarina.”
Erik.
The sound of his voice breaks something inside me. All the fear, all the desperation, all the loneliness I’ve been drowning in for three days come crashing down at once. A sob tears from my throat before I can stop it.
“Erik?” My voice cracks like I’m twelve years old.
I scramble out from behind the bed, my legs shaking so badly I nearly fall.
He’s standing in the doorway, tactical gear strapped across his broad chest, a rifle slung over his shoulder.
There’s blood on his sleeve and soot streaking his jaw, but his dark eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that steals my breath.
Real. He’s real.
“You came.” The words tumble out between sobs I can’t control. “You actually came.”
I launch myself at him without thinking, my bare feet slipping on the hardwood. Erik catches me easily, his arms crushing me against his chest like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. His familiar scent fills my lungs.
“I wasn’t going to let him marry you off to that bastard.” His voice is rough against my ear.
I’m crying too hard to answer. Tears stream down my face, soaking into his tactical vest. Three days of being treated like property, of facing a future that terrified me, of believing I’d never see him again—it all pours out in ugly, gasping sobs.
“Hey.” Erik’s scarred hands frame my face, tilting it up so he can see me. His thumbs brush away my tears with surprising gentleness. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
“I thought—” Another sob cuts off my words. “My father said—the wedding?—”
“There’s not going to be a wedding.” His voice turns deadly, the soldier bleeding through. “Anton Petrov won’t be bothering you.”
I search his face, looking for any sign he’s lying, but all I see is absolute certainty. Erik Ivanov doesn’t make promises he can’t keep.
“How?” I whisper.
His mouth curves into something that’s not quite a smile. “Let’s just say the Petrov family is having a very bad day.”His thumb traces the tear tracks on my cheeks. “Katarina.” My name on his lips sounds like a prayer.
For a moment, we just stare at each other—him in full tactical gear, me in silk pajamas, both of us breathing hard in the aftermath of terror and relief.
Then he leans down and kisses me.
This kiss is sweet and full of everything we couldn’t say during those stolen moments in the compound. His lips are warm and gentle, moving against mine with a reverence that makes more tears spill down my cheeks.
I taste salt and smoke and something that might be blood, but I don’t care. He’s here. He came for me.
Erik groans against my mouth, the sound vibrating through both our bodies. For one perfect moment, I think he might deepen the kiss, pull me closer, and make me forget about everything except the way he makes me feel.
Instead, he forces his lips from mine, his breathing ragged.
“We need to go.” His voice is strained. “Before your father brings reinforcements. We planned to do this quietly.”
I blink up at him, still dazed by his kiss and the surreal situation. “What the hell happened then? Those explosions weren’t exactly quiet.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. “I’ll explain once we’re away and safe.”
The distant sound of vehicles approaching cuts through the air—engines revving, tires squealing against asphalt. Erik’s whole body tenses, his soldier instincts taking over.
“Katarina.” His eyes lock onto mine, dark and urgent. “Do you trust me?”
The question should require thought. Logic. Careful consideration of the man who held me captive, who belongs to a family that’s been at war with mine for years.
But there’s no hesitation in my answer.
“Yes.”
“Then we go. Now.”
I nod without question. Whatever happened downstairs, whatever chaos erupted in my father’s carefully ordered world, I don’t care. Erik came for me when no one else would. He saw me as more than a bargaining chip or a breeding mare.
He sees me as worth saving.
“Lead the way.”