Chapter 25 #2
The door opens. Hands grab under my arms. I'm dragged upright. My shoes scrape against the pavement, then gravel crunches. A faint stench of damp metal, oil, and something industrial seeps through the black cloth.
A door creaks open. I'm dragged forward, and the temperature drops.
My vision swims beneath the black hood. My wrists get yanked behind me and secured with zip ties that dig into my skin. Panic builds higher, and I remind myself to breathe, but even that is a chore.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Control what you can.
Several sets of footsteps echo around me. Russian words explode in sharp bursts, their tone aggressive even if I can't catch every phrase. I hear my name once. Then Ivanov.
My senses slowly begin to return. Each muscle tries to reclaim its strength.
Someone pushes me down into a chair. My knees hit first, then my shoulders slam against a hard backrest. Cold metal circles my ankles. I test the restraints, but there's no leeway.
The hood gets ripped off. Bright overhead light burns my vision white. I blink rapidly, forcing clarity back into place, but things are still blurry.
Through the haze, I realize the room is concrete with no windows. There's one steel door. Two men stand near it, broad and silent. Another leans against the far wall. All wear suits as if they're high-powered businessmen.
One of them comes closer and steps in front of me. I blink over and over until my vision clears. A new chill runs down my spine.
Adrian Ivanov.
He's immaculate in his tailored charcoal suit. His eyes tighten with contained rage.
Controlled fury is always more dangerous.
Another round of anxiety furrows low in my belly.
He studies me without speaking, and his gaze lands on the faint tremor still running through my thigh.
I lift my chin despite it.
He steps closer. Then slaps my cheek with no warning.
My head snaps sideways. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth where my teeth catch my inner cheek.
Ironically, it's not brutal. If he wanted to really hurt me, he would have hit harder.
He wants to establish a hierarchy.
I turn back slowly.
He crouches in front of me, eye level. In a quiet voice, he asserts, "You mistake access for ownership."
"If you're referring to Blue," I reply evenly, fighting the shocks still running through my limbs, "she's an adult."
A punch lands in my stomach so fast, I don't brace for it.
Air explodes out of me. My vision tunnels. My body tries to curl forward, but the zip ties hold me in place, forcing me to absorb the impact without protection.
"You will not speak her name," Adrian seethes.
I swallow through the pain.
He stands and circles me slowly, the click of his dress shoes precise against the concrete. He continues, "You're intelligent. Educated. Established. You have a reputation to protect."
I breathe through my nose, trying to recover from the punch.
"And yet you involve yourself with my family. My daughter," he sneers.
"She's an adult," I repeat.
His hand grips my jaw hard enough that I feel the pressure in my teeth. He grits, "You think this is mutual? You think she chose you freely?"
I manage to get out, "She did."
His thumb presses into my cheek, forcing my mouth slightly open as he studies my expression like a specimen. He scowls deeper. "You underestimate influence." He releases me and nods toward one of the men.
He brings an envelope and places it in Adrian's hand.
He opens it slowly and removes photographs.
My pulse spikes.
He holds one up.
It's grainy but clear enough. Blue's stressed, her eyes are too bright, like someone turned the saturation up a notch past natural. Her blown-wide pupils swallow color, making her gaze look fever-hot and restless.
Adrian demands, "You think she's in a healthy mental state to make good decisions?"
My stomach turns cold.
Adrian watches my reaction carefully.
I drag my gaze from the photo to him. "Her struggles don't negate her ability to make choices."
A faint smile touches his mouth. "You seem to misunderstand. I protect what is mine."
"She isn't yours."
Adrian's expression shifts behind his eyes. He leans closer. "You took advantage of the wrong woman."
"I didn't take advantage of her."
His hand moves faster than expected, gripping my collar and yanking me forward until our faces are inches apart. "You don't deserve to live."
My pulse skyrockets. "If you kill me, you hurt her. And she'll fall back to hurting herself."
A vein throbs in his neck. Rage deepens over his expression along with a flicker of fear. He recovers, warning, "You think you can threaten me?"
"It's not a threat. You've miscalculated this situation."
More anger explodes over him. He tightens his grip on my shirt.
"Adrian," another man with a Russian accent warns.
He continues assessing me, then abruptly releases his grip. He straightens his jacket like this is nothing more than a boardroom disagreement. He snarls, "You are a man accustomed to control. You dominate in private. You command in public. But you do not understand legacy. Blood. Territory."
"She's not territory."
"She is my daughter."
"And she is not your property."
His jaw tightens. Something raw flickers. He holds out his phone and orders, "You will end it."
I lift my head. "No."
The room tenses. One of the men shifts his weight. Adrian studies me for a long, silent moment. Then he nods slowly, as if he expected this.
He gestures slightly.
The man behind me steps forward. The stun gun crackles to life again.
Fuck.
My body braces.
"Think carefully," Adrian says, almost conversationally. "Pain is temporary. Loss is not."
The shock hits again.
This time, I grit my teeth, but it doesn't matter. My muscles seize violently, every nerve screaming as electricity rips through me. My back arches against the chair. My hands clench uselessly behind me. A sound tears from my throat that I refuse to identify as a scream.
When it stops, my body slumps forward, shaking. Sweat drips down my temple. When I'm capable, I slowly lift my head. I rasp, "You think fear will make me leave her?"
Adrian's eyes turn to slits. "No. But I think survival might."