5. Sabina
5
Sabina
A second limo glides to a stop, its sleek black frame gleaming under the light of the streetlamp. Nikolai doesn’t hesitate. He yanks open the back passenger door and guides me inside, his movements commanding, his touch firm but not rough. The press of his palm against the small of my back burns hotter than it should, like a brand I can’t shake off.
I slide into the seat, my heart pounding, my thoughts a tangle of confusion and something I don’t want to name. Nikolai climbs in after me, the door slamming shut behind him. His broad frame fills my vision, the tension in the air thickening with each breath I take. Even sitting still, he takes up too much space, too much air, too much attention. He’s an oppressive presence and I despise how much I feel it.
It takes a moment for my brain to catch up, to fully register what’s happening. The way Nikolai took down those men…men hired by the Ivanovs …
What the hell is happening?
None of this makes sense. My stomach twists, a cocktail of fear and fury churning inside me. I should thank him. I should punch him in the balls. I should—
I need to get the hell out of this car. I need to get away from Nikolai. My hand shoots toward the door handle.
It’s locked.
“Relax,” Nikolai says, his deep voice calm, almost bored.
“Why is the door locked?” My voice is sharp, laced with panic.
His gaze flicks to mine, cool, unbothered. “Because I locked it.”
I yank on the handle. “Unlock it. Let me out. This isn’t my car.”
“No, it’s mine. And you’re staying right where you are.” He leans back, his expression calm. Infuriating. Condescending, like I’m some unruly child who doesn’t know what’s best for her.
The divider window between the backseat and the driver’s compartment is open. The driver’s eyes meet mine in the rear-view mirror, his expression neutral, detached.
“Let me out of here,” I say, forcing my voice to convey every iota of command I can summon.
“Mr. Ivanov?” the driver says.
“We’re fine, Piotr,” Nikolai replies smoothly. “Drive.”
The divider slides up, leaving me alone with Nikolai.
I glare at him, anger melding with my fear. “This is insane. My brother —
He cuts me off smoothly. “Your brother isn’t here.”
I keep talking as if he hadn’t interrupted. “Leo is going to fucking kill you for this, you piece of shit. You’re kidnapping the sister of Leo Russo. Damian Russo. Dante. Cassio. Do you know what my brothers will do to you?”
“Your brothers aren’t here,” he reiterates, his tone maddeningly calm. “You are alone. So be smart. Stop wasting energy trying to fight me.”
I ball my fists, every muscle in my body screaming for action. But what can I do against someone like him. Nikolai Ivanov is a weapon wrapped in expensive clothing and sharp arrogance.
“My brothers are going to peel the flesh from your bones. Do you have any idea what Cassio can do with a knife? He’ll—”
“Peel the flesh from my bones. Yes, you’ve mentioned. Very creative.” His expression is razor-sharp and completely dismissive. It makes me want to launch myself at him, damn the consequences. “You think I didn’t account for your brothers before I made my move?” He holds out his hand, palm up. “Give me your phone.”
I blink at him, incredulous. “No.”
His jaw tightens, but his voice remains calm, laced with an edge of steel. “I wasn’t asking, Sabina.”
I lean back against the seat, crossing my arms. “Go to hell.”
A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face, and something dark and sharp flickers in his eyes.
“Either you hand it to me now, or I search every inch of you until I find it.” His voice drops, soft and lethal, making my pulse spike. “And believe me, little girl, I will be thorough in my search.”
The heat of his words coils low in my belly, and I hate it. Hate him. Hate the way my body betrays me. With a glare that could set him on fire, I yank the phone from my pocket and slap it into his waiting hand.
He slips it into his coat pocket without even glancing at it.
“Good girl,” he says, his tone dripping with mockery.
My fists clench at my sides. “I’m not your dog, you arrogant bastard.”
“No,” he murmurs, leaning back in his seat, his blue eyes glinting with dark amusement. “You’re not. But you are mine, whether you like it or not.”
His words slice though me, bold and unforgiving, and my pulse stutters. “I’m not yours.”
“Not yet.”
His casual confidence ignites something keen and unwanted inside of me.
“Stop beating your chest. I’m not some prize to be dragged around by the hair, you Neanderthal. I belong to no one but myself.”
“Careful, Sabina. You might find you like being dragged by your hair…under the right circumstances,” he says, then leans closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Is that what you tell yourself? That you belong only to you? Let’s see how long that illusion lasts.”
I glare at him, my entire body vibrating with rage. “You’re delusional if you think I’ll fall in line with whatever it is you have planned. I’m not some obedient little puppet.”
“Obedient?” His eyes flash, a spark of something that makes my stomach flip. “No, I don’t want you obedient. I want you exactly like this…proud, angry, fighting me every step of the way. That makes it more satisfying when I win.”
“Win what?” I snap.
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he sits back, his gaze raking over me, unhurried and infuriatingly assured.
“Everything,” he finally says, his voice soft but laced with steel.
I grit my teeth and turn to look out the window, refusing to engage further. In the dark glass, my reflection stares back at me—a woman trapped in a cage, and worse, trapped with him. I hate him. I hate the way his presence fills the car, suffocating yet magnetic. I hate the way my pulse betrays me every time his voice dips low, or his gaze lingers a little too long. But most of all, I hate the way a tiny, treacherous part of me doesn’t want him to stop.
A moment later, he pulls out his phone and makes a call.
“I have her,” he says, his tone clipped. “No, I took care of them.” He pauses, listening. “Yes, I’ll keep you updated.”
He ends the call and slides the phone into his pocket, right alongside mine.
“Where are you taking me?” I finally ask, my voice clipped.
“To safety,” he replies, his tone maddeningly calm.
“Safety,” I repeat, my voice thick with sarcasm. “With you. Right. That sounds perfectly credible coming from the man who kidnapped me.”
“You weren’t safe back there,” he says, his voice hardening. “And you’re not safe now unless you’re with me.”
“And why the hell should I believe you?” I demand, my anger boiling over. “The men who tried to take me were Ivanov hires!”
Nikolai tilts his head, studying me like I’m an intriguing puzzle. “You need to trust me.”
My laugh is sharp, bitter. “Trust you? You killed my father.”
Nikolai’s jaw tightens, a flicker of something dark and dangerous crossing his face. “My father killed your father,” he corrects, his voice low, measured. “Don’t confuse me with him.”
“You expect that to make a difference?” I snap, my voice rising with anger. “You carry his name, his power, his legacy. And now, you think I should trust you?”
“It was also my uncle’s name. Vlasta Ivanov. And it is his legacy I intend to continue.” His gaze bores into mine, intense and relentless.
I remember Vlasta. He and my father weren’t exactly friends, but they were allies. My father respected Vlasta, liked him, was sad when he died. And I remember my father saying that Nikolai loved Vlasta like a father.
After a minute, Nikolai continues. “I don’t want your trust because of my name. I want it because I’ve earned it.”
I scoff, crossing my arms. “And how exactly do you think you’ve earned it? By kidnapping me? By forcing me into this car?”
“By stopping those men,” he says coldly, his tone like frost biting into my skin. “Men who would have done far worse if I hadn’t intervened. You may hate me, Sabina, but hate isn’t enough to keep you safe.”
“Safe,” I echo, the word bitter on my tongue because isn’t that exactly what I claimed I wanted? To be safe? God, was it only two days ago that I thought marriage to Roberto would accomplish that? I was delusional.
And I am definitely not safe right now.
His hand moves suddenly, catching my chin and tilting my face toward him. His touch is firm but not rough, and the jolt of heat that surges through me is as unwelcome as it is undeniable. His eyes lock onto mine, cold and unyielding, holding me captive.
“You don’t have to believe me,” he says, his voice low and lethal. “But you will listen. Those men wouldn’t have stopped until they had you bleeding and begging for mercy. I stopped them because I don’t share what’s mine.”
My breath catches, my pulse racing in equal parts fury and something darker, something I don’t want to name.
“I’m not yours,” I bite out, but the words feel weak, hollow, even to my own ears.
“You keep saying that,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over my jaw in a way that’s far too intimate. “But I think we both know better.”
I jerk away from him and lunge for my bag, the small weight of my Ruger LCP II like an anchor in my hand. I raise it, the compact pistol steady despite the fury trembling through me. I level it at his chest.
“Unlock the door,” I say, my voice steady, though my pulse races. “Let me out.”
Nikolai’s eyes meet mine, the corners of his mouth curving as if to mock my resolve.
“And if I don’t?”
I grip the gun tighter. “Then I’ll shoot you.” The words make me sick. And afraid. Because I don’t know if they’re true. I don’t know if I can pull the trigger, the way I did once before…
“Do it,” he challenges, his tone a quiet dare.
Then, before I even register the movement, the gun is gone. His hand moves like a viper, swift and deadly, snatching the weapon from my grasp as if I’d handed it to him myself.
The world tilts as he surges forward, pinning me, pressing me back against the seat, the Ruger now in his hand as he sets it down deliberately on the seat opposite. His expression is calm, controlled, but his eyes burn with something fierce and wild.
“Cute,” he murmurs, his voice laced with mockery.
I thrash beneath him, but his grip is unyielding. His body presses against mine, his weight solid and immovable, and my breath catches when I feel the hard ridge of his cock against my stomach. Heat surges through me, unwanted and infuriating, twisting low in my belly like a betrayal. His scent surrounds me—amber, smoke, and something uniquely him—igniting something primal, something dangerous, that I can’t control.
This is what I’ve dreamed of in secret: a man who could overpower me, who could strip away my defenses, leave me bare and vulnerable, not with cruelty but with unrelenting dominance. My fantasies are shadows I’ve never dared to step into, desires I’ve tried to deny. But here he is—solid, real, dangerous—and for a fleeting, horrifying second, I don’t want him to move.
I imagine this hard mouth on mine—demanding, unrelenting, taking everything I’d give and more. He would bruise my lips, claim me as though he had every right to. I see his big hands trapping my wrists, his fingers curling around them with just enough pressure to remind me I’m not in control, that I’d given it up willingly. His honed body would pin me down just as he is now, the weight of him both a cage and a sanctuary.
And suddenly, the man in my darkest fantasies has a face. Nikolai’s face.
“Behave yourself,” he growls.
I glare at him, my breath coming fast and shallow, the words spilling from my lips before I can stop them. “Fuck you.”
His gaze darkens. “Not tonight. But soon.”
I turn my head and glare at the window as the miles pass. The city is long behind us, not even a glow of light in the distance. We’ve been driving for hours when the divider window suddenly lowers.
“Mr. Ivanov,” Piotr says, his voice tight. “There’s a car on us.”
Nikolai straightens and settles back in the seat. “How long?”
“About twenty minutes. Black SUV. They’re keeping their distance but not trying to hide.”
“Chicago,” Nikolai says.
“Fuck,” Piotr replies.
“Yeah. Keep driving. Don’t let them get too close.”
“Chicago?” I ask. “Is that supposed to mean something—”
The first jolt comes out of nowhere, slamming me forward as something rams the back of the limo. My scream rips through the air, shrill and involuntary, as I clutch the seat for balance. The tires screech against the icy road, and the entire car fishtails violently, my stomach lurching with each wild swing.
I twist to look at Nikolai, who remains eerily calm, his body braced against the leather seat like he’s done this a thousand times. His sharp gaze flicks to the rear window, then back to me.
He reaches over and yanks my seatbelt tighter.
“Hold on,” he orders, his voice as cold and steady as the snow swirling outside.
A second jolt slams me forward so hard the seatbelt bites into my chest. My heart pounds like a war drum, my breath shallow and fast. The sleek interior of the limo feels impossibly small and fragile as the sound of screeching metal and roaring engines fills the air.
Nikolai pulls out a sleek, black semi-automatic. His window hums as it lowers. Icy wind rushes in, stealing my breath. He leans out, his profile harsh and unyielding against the dark night.
The muzzle of his gun flashes against the snow-blurred darkness. He squeezes off three shots.
I twist to see the headlights of the pursuing car swerve wildly, the beams cutting erratic arcs through the swirling snow. For a moment, it looks like the car is lunging sideways, the beams of light slashing across the trees in a dizzying, disjointed rhythm. Then, the vehicle skids sharply, the headlights dipping and tilting as the car loses control, the beams sweeping across the road and into the dark forest beyond. A spray of snow erupts in the air like a wave, illuminated briefly in the twin cones of light. Then the car’s headlights jerk violently to one side and vanish, swallowed by the dense shadows of the trees.
The absence of those lights leaves the world darker than before, the snowstorm devouring everything in sight. For a heartbeat, all I can hear is the pounding of my own pulse.
Nikolai settles on the seat and closes the window. I have a second to feel hopeful, to believe we are safe.
And then the world tilts, and my fingers scrabble for anything solid as the limo skids on a patch of ice.
“Piotr!” Nikolai’s voice is sharper now, edged with urgency.
The limo spins helplessly, careening off the road. My scream catches in my throat as we slam into something solid—a tree?—the deafening crunch of metal ringing in my ears.
The force of the crash flips the limo onto its side. I’m thrown against the window, my head smashing into the cold glass with a sickening thud. Pain explodes in my skull, white-hot and blinding, and the world blurs.
For a moment, everything is still. Silent. My limbs feel heavy, unresponsive. Darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision, threatening to swallow me whole.
Then I notice is the smell—sharp, acrid, unmistakable. Gasoline. Panic surges through me, cutting through the haze in my mind like a blade. My breathing is ragged, shallow, and my chest aches with every inhale.
I try to move, but the world tilts dangerously, and nausea churns in my stomach. The glass is cold against my cheek. I force my eyes open, wincing at the brightness of the snow-covered ground outside the shattered window.
“Sabina,” a voice cuts through the fog, sharp and commanding.
I turn my head, my movements sluggish, to see Nikolai already pushing the door open above him. His black coat is streaked with snow, his expression a mix of urgency and control.
“Sabina,” Nikolai says. “Get up, or we’ll both burn.”