13. Cora
13
CORA
L aughter echoes from the hallway—our baby’s laughter. I turn, and Ivan’s there. The sharp edges of him are softened in the morning light, the weight he always carries seemingly gone.
But it’s not just us. I look down. Our baby is in my arms.
The tiny bundle shifts, making a small, contented cooing sound. When did I give birth?
I adjust my hold, cradling the infant closer, feeling the delicate weight settle against my chest. Soft, chubby fingers curl and uncurl, stretching in the dappled sunlight. The warmth of her little body seeps into me.
Ivan reaches out, brushing his knuckles over the baby’s cheek, his movements careful, deliberate. His hands—so large, so capable of violence, of destruction—are impossibly gentle.
“What’s her name?” I ask.
He looks at me and smiles. “You know, printsessa, don’t you? You chose it.”
This is peace. A stolen moment in time, untouched by the world outside these walls. No threats, no danger, no blood staining his hands, no fear curling in my gut.
I lean into him, the warmth of his body solid against mine. His arm comes around my waist, his grip firm in a way that feels safe instead of suffocating.
A chill slides down my spine, sudden and sharp, wrong. The golden light flickers, darkens. Shadows creep along the edges of my vision, twisting, curling like smoke.
No.
The warmth fades, replaced by something colder, something familiar—fear.
The scent of coffee disappears. The laughter silences. Ivan’s grip loosens. His expression changes.
The baby in my arms vanishes.
My stomach plummets as smoke billows around me. How did I get into the bakery? I see Mom and Dad through the thick plumes of acrid gray. They’re calling me but I can’t get to them.
Something is wrong.
My gut screams at me—RUN. Ivan grabs my hand. “The baby,” I scream. “Where is she?”
“With you,” he replies. “Now wake up.”
I wake with a gasp, my breath sharp and uneven as my body jolts upright.
A sharp, aching sense of wrongness settles deep in my bones, making my fingers tighten around the sheets. The penthouse is silent. My ears strain against the quiet, searching for the familiar sounds of Ivan moving through the space.
Night has fallen outside. I must have been asleep for hours.
A cold, sick feeling unfurls in my gut. Where is he?
My phone buzzes.
The sound shatters the stillness, startling me. My pulse slams against my throat as I fumble for it on the nightstand, my fingers shaky, the glow of the screen casting eerie shadows across the room.
A message from Ivan.
Come to me. Quickly. The penthouse has been compromised. A cab is waiting for you outside.
The words punch the air from my lungs.
Compromised.
I don’t stop to think. I don’t hesitate.
I shove back the covers, my body moving on autopilot, my mind still trying to catch up. Clothes. Shoes. Jacket. Out.
I reach the elevator and slam the button, my heart hammering in my chest. The doors open with a soft chime, and I step inside, pressing against the wall as the descent begins.
The feeling doesn’t leave me.
That gnawing, creeping sense of dread.
By the time I reach the street, a yellow car is already waiting at the curb. It sits there, silent and waiting, the glow of the streetlamp glinting off its sleek exterior.
My legs feel unsteady as I approach. The driver looks my way. “Cora?” A Russian accent.
“Yeah.”
“Ivan sent me. Get in. Make it quick.”
I climb into the back seat, the door clicking shut behind me with a finality that makes my stomach clench. “Where are we going?” I ask as we pull away from the curb.
“Somewhere safe. Don’t worry. Ivan’s waiting for you. He’s hurt but he’ll be all right.”
I force myself to breathe. In. Out.
“Hurt? What happened?”
“He said he’ll tell you himself. Take it easy. Won’t be long.”
The car rolls to a stop. The driver nods toward a hulking warehouse to the right.
"He’s in there," he says. “Door’s open.”
The words scrape against my nerves like sandpaper.
My fingers twitch against my lap. The cold air seeping through the crack in the window feels sharper, more biting than it should. A deep, primal warning hums in my bones, but I shove it aside.
Ivan needs me. He’s hurt and he needs me.
I push open the door and step out. The city’s glow barely touches this part of town—an industrial graveyard of rusting machinery. The pavement stretches dark and empty ahead of me, the warehouse looming like a sleeping beast.
I reach for the handle and turn it, stepping into the darkness.
Hands grab me at once.
A vice-like grip clamps around my waist, yanking me backward. A second pair of hands snatches my wrists, twisting them behind my back, wrenching me off balance.
Panic explodes in my chest.
A scream claws its way up my throat, but a rough hand slams over my mouth, muffling the sound.
No.
I thrash, jerking, twisting, kicking with everything I have. My heel connects with something solid, a grunt of pain sounding behind me. My captor’s grip falters for a fraction of a second—just long enough for me to lurch forward, trying to rip myself free.
But they’re too fast.
An arm snakes around my throat, yanking me back hard. My air supply cuts off, my vision splintering for a brief second before I manage to twist just enough to slam my elbow into a ribcage.
The man behind me grunts, but his hold doesn’t break.
I need a better angle.
I kick backward—hard—my boot landing squarely against a knee. Something pops. The man lets out a strangled curse, his balance shifting.
I move.
I drive my shoulder forward, twisting violently, using his momentary loss of footing to throw my weight into him. He stumbles. I almost get free.
But then?—
A fist slams into my chest.
Pain explodes through me, knocking the breath from my lungs. I fold inward, gasping, body rebelling against the brutal impact. Before I can recover, another hit crashes into my ribs, a crushing blow that sends white-hot agony flaring through my side.
My knees buckle.
Hands shove me forward before I can catch myself, my legs tangling beneath me as I collapse to the ground.
No.
I push up, clawing against the pavement, my limbs sluggish and shaking. I manage to get halfway to my feet before a boot slams into my side.
A strangled sound rips from my throat as I roll onto my back, pain screaming through me. The world tilts, my vision blurring as more figures close in, shadows swallowing the edges of my sight.
No. No. No.
A slow chuckle slices through the air.
A voice I know. A voice I hate.
"You thought he could protect you?"
The blood in my veins turns to ice as I look up into Darren’s sneering face.
I lift my head, my vision swimming, my breath shallow and sharp. Darren steps forward, his dark coat rustling slightly.
He looks at me like I’m exactly where I belong.
I twist, still trying to scramble backward, but rough hands clamp down on my arms, yanking me upright. I thrash, my nails clawing at the hands pinning me in place.
Darren watches, amused.
"You shouldn’t have stolen from me," he murmurs, stepping closer, his voice infuriatingly calm.
I jerk against the men holding me, my breath ragged.
His hand lifts, his fingers trailing lightly over my cheek. Mocking. Amused. Cruel.
"Where is it?"
“Where’s what?”
“Don’t fuck with me. Where is it?”
Rage snaps through me like a lightning strike.
I spit in his face. “Fuck you.”
The men gripping me stiffen. The air crackles, tension thick and smothering.
For a long moment, he doesn’t move.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he wipes the spit from his cheek with the back of his glove.
And smiles as he licks it.
A chill seeps into my spine.
His hand lashes out, but not to strike. He grips my jaw, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise, forcing my face upward.
"Still feisty," he muses, tilting his head slightly. "I’ll have fun breaking that resolve with my cock."
The first blow lands before I can brace for it.
Pain explodes through my ribs, stealing the breath from my lungs.
I choke, my vision blurring, but the next strike comes fast—a brutal, crushing blow to my stomach.
My baby.
I fold inward, my body collapsing, knees slamming into the pavement. The impact rattles through me, sending pain screaming through my bones.
Before I can recover, a boot connects with my ribs.
A strangled cry rips from my throat. My body tilts sideways, hitting the ground hard.
The world spins. The air is heavy, thick, suffocating. I can’t breathe.
Hands grab me—hauling me up, dragging me forward. My legs barely work, my vision swimming, pain a living thing beneath my skin.
I struggle, my arms jerking, but their grip is unyielding.
They shove me down, my back hitting something cold. A sharp tug—ropes tightening around my wrists, my ankles.
I suck in a breath, blinking against the pain, against the rage.
I will not break.
Darren leans over me.
And smiles.
"You’ll talk," he murmurs. “Or you’ll die.”
Every inch of my body aches. My ribs scream with every shallow breath, my wrists burn from the rough ropes binding them, but I don’t let myself focus on it.
I can’t afford to.
Not with him standing over me.
Darren is poised, composed, the picture of control. His coat is still pristine, his gloves smooth and unblemished, as if he wasn’t the one who ordered the attack, as if he wasn’t the one who stood there, watching as his men beat me into submission.
He lifts a single gloved hand and taps his finger against the metal surface of the table I’m bound to.
"You have something I want, little thief," he says smoothly, voice almost bored.
Little thief.
The nickname twists in my stomach.
"I’ll make this simple for you," he continues, cocking his head slightly, as if he’s being generous. "Hand over the flash drive, or Ivan dies in front of you."
My stomach clenches.
I keep my face blank, refusing to let him see the fear threatening to unravel me from the inside out.
I don’t answer.
Darren’s eyes flicker with amusement. He’s enjoying this. “You think he might already be dead.” He shakes his head. “Where would be the fun in that?”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone.
The second he flicks his fingers across the screen, I know.
I know before I even see it.
But when the screen glows to life, it still feels like a fist around my throat.
Ivan.
Tied to a chair.
Blood streaks down the side of his face, staining his collar, a deep crimson contrast against the pale blue light of the screen. His hands are bound, his shoulders slumped, his head hanging forward like his body is too heavy to hold up anymore.
But he’s breathing.
Barely.
My pulse stutters.
Darren watches me carefully, measuring. His gaze flicks between me and the screen, his smirk deepening like he’s savoring every second of my pain.
"You have one hour to make up your mind," he murmurs, slipping the phone back into his pocket. His gloved fingers brush against the fabric, slow and deliberate. Unbothered.
He leans in slightly, voice dropping to a murmur.
"If you choose wrong," he says, dragging a single gloved finger along my temple, over my hair, a mockery of gentleness, "I’ll let my men have their fun with you first. Then I’ll kill him myself. Then I’ll have you.”
He straightens. Adjusts the sleeve of his coat. Then, without another word, he turns and walks away.
The lights cut out.
Darkness engulfs me, swallowing the room whole. Swallowing me.
My breath is loud in the silence, uneven, shaky. I clench my jaw, fighting the way my body trembles, fighting the way my mind screams.
The pain in my ribs throbs in time with my heartbeat. My wrists strain against the bindings, the rough rope cutting into raw skin.
I grit my teeth. I will not break.
But my mind is already reaching for him.
Ivan.
My chest aches with something worse than pain.
I tilt my head back against the table, eyes squeezing shut, and a single broken whisper slips past my lips.
"Ivan. Help me."