Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Ariana
Waking came in fragments, like a film reel sputtering in and out of focus.
First was the pounding. A heavy throb at the base of my skull that pulsed in rhythm with every sluggish beat of my heart. My stomach cramped, sour and tight, the bitter taste of bile thick on my tongue. My knee burned like it had been branded, the pain sparking sharper each time I moved.
The low hum of something sounded in the background, steady and mechanical.
The heater maybe. Then something I hadn’t heard in days cut through the silence.
The rumble of an airplane flying overhead.
Like I was near some sort of civilization.
Not hidden away in a mountain cabin like a helpless lamb awaiting slaughter.
I blinked my eyes open, able to focus long enough to make out my surroundings. No log beams running across the ceiling. No snow-capped mountains outside the window. No stone fireplace carved into the wall.
The ceiling above me was smooth, sterile white. Light streamed through the window, the trees outside a mixture of oak and maple. The furniture was modern and impersonal, and the air smelled faintly of detergent, not wood smoke.
I shifted, trying to sit up, but the motion made my head flare with pain so sharp my stomach heaved. I touched a hand to my temple, pressing down as though I could hold my skull together by sheer force, feeling a bandage covering my forehead above my right eye.
I searched my mind for a memory of how I’d gotten it. How I’d gotten here. But nothing came.
Had I imagined everything? Had the cabin been some fever-dream I’d conjured to escape my own reality? Was I still dreaming now?
But if this were a dream, why did everything hurt so much? Why did my ribs feel like they’d been used for target practice? Why did every slight shift feel like glass lodging deep beneath my skin?
Was this all Victor’s doing?
I’d gotten used to his abuse. But it had never been this bad. He’d never left marks on my face. Everywhere else, but never my face.
I forced my eyes wider, blinking until shapes started to form. Something moved in the corner, massive and ominous.
I squinted, willing my vision to sharpen. The shape came into focus, and a tail thumped against the floor.
A dog.
Relief hit me fast. I wasn’t with Victor. He would never tolerate a dog in the house.
But I recalled someone who did tolerate a dog in the house.
Henry.
Fractured memories played before my eyes as I struggled to piece together the events that led to this moment.
Sheets tangled around us. Henry’s weight pressing me into the mattress, his mouth claiming mine. His rough voice calling me a warrior.
Then the duffel bag. Rolls of bills spilling out. The phone. The messages.
The Bratva.
I’d drugged him. Ran. Stopped for gas.
What happened after that?
I closed my eyes, as if that would help me remember better, more snippets coming into focus.
A dark SUV. Headlights in the rearview mirror. Gunfire exploding behind me. The tree. Blood. Pain. Then darkness.
I pressed my lips together until they hurt, smothering the sob clawing at my throat as the pieces clicked into place.
I should have known better than to think I could outmaneuver Henry Fontaine. He was bigger, faster, stronger.
And from the rolls of cash in his duffel bag, he’d been paid a lot of money for me.
I wasn’t a person to him. Just a piece of property.
Like I was to Victor.
And I was stupid enough to fall for his charms.
Like I did with Victor.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, nearly crying out from the agony coursing through me. I gritted my teeth and breathed through the pain.
Pain was familiar. Pain I could handle. One of the benefits of enduring years of Victor’s abuse, I supposed. I had no choice but to function with bruised ribs, broken bones, and scars that would never heal.
With one long inhale, I pushed up to stand. My knee almost gave out, white heat shooting through it, but I caught myself on the nightstand before I fell. Cato jumped to his feet and let out a single sharp bark, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
“Shhh,” I hissed, panic snaking through me. My pulse roared in my ears, drowning out everything else.
Except for the sound of footsteps thundering down the hall, fast and unyielding.
I shot my gaze toward the door, my breathing growing ragged as the sound grew closer and closer. Then the door flew open, and Henry’s broad physique filled the frame.
His dark hair was rumpled, his eyes shadowed like he hadn’t slept in days, his face lined with worry.
Rage surged, burning hotter than the pain. I grabbed the vase from the nightstand, roses and water spilling across the hardwood floor as I fought to maintain my balance. Everything was uneven and blurry. I felt like I was on an unsteady boat that kept rocking back and forth.
“Careful, Ariana.” He raised his hands in surrender, his voice low and calm. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
“I’ll take my chances.” I tightened my grip on the vase, as if it might help steady me.
“What do you plan on doing with that?”
“I don’t know. But I’m not going to do nothing while you sell me to the Bratva. I saw the money. The messages. I know everything. You were paid to abduct me.” My voice cracked, but I forced it louder, stronger. Refused to let him see how much his betrayal hurt me.
I’d survived years of being my husband’s punching bag. Yet this hurt more than Victor’s fists. More than his knife cutting into my skin. More than his cigarettes branding my flesh.
For a brief time, Henry made me feel something I hadn’t in years.
Hope.
And it had all been a lie.
“If you’ll sit back down, I’ll explain—”
“Explain?” I barked out an incredulous laugh. “That’s what you’d like, isn’t it? For me to sit still, shut up, and let you keep me prisoner.”
“You were never—”
“Well, I’ll let you in on a little secret, Mr. Fontaine,” I cut him off, his name venom on my tongue. “I’m done with that. Done with letting some man decide what happens to me. Done letting you decide what happens to me.”
He flexed his jaw. “Ariana, if you’d—”
“Remember when you called me a warrior? It’s probably the only honest thing that’s ever come out of your mouth. Because that’s exactly what I plan on being. I may not be as big or as strong as you, but I have survived fucking hell.”
“I know. I—”
“And I won’t stop fighting now. Not for you. Not for Victor. And not for the Bratva. I’d rather—”
“I’m not working for the fucking Bratva!” Henry shouted, his voice raw. Explosive.
I startled at the force of it, snapping my mouth shut.
His chest rose and fell like he’d just gone ten rounds, jaw tight, hands clenched into fists.
“I was watching your house when I saw a man break in and take you. I followed. Intervened. That man was Bratva. It was his duffel you found. His phone. His money.”
The vase trembled in my grip, the weight of it weakening my arms. But I refused to show any hint of weakness.
“Why should I believe you?” I shot back.
He pushed out a long sigh, raking his hand over his face. He looked wary. Exhausted. Like he’d been fighting a war for days.
“You shouldn’t. And that’s my fault. I own that.” He pointed to his chest, raw and determined. “I should have told you the truth the first time you asked. I didn’t. And I almost lost you because of it.”
His voice caught, and he squeezed his eyes shut. When he returned his gaze to mine, it was fierce. Unwavering.
“I won’t make that mistake again. From this moment forward, there are no more secrets. Just…” He stepped closer, his movements measured, as if approaching a wild animal. “Let me explain, Ariana.”
He reached for his waistband. I instinctively backed up. A part of me expected him to withdraw zipties, handcuffs, or some other restraints to chain me up like nothing more than property.
Instead, he drew his gun and held it out to me, pointing down.
“If, after hearing me out, you still think I’m lying, still think I’m a monster…” His throat worked as he swallowed. “Then shoot me.”
My heart slammed in my chest as I eyed the gun. “You’re giving me permission to shoot you?”
“I’m hoping you don’t.” His lips pressed into a line. “I’m hoping you believe me. I guess I’m trying to prove that you can trust me, despite what my past actions may have led you to believe.”
I looked from his eyes to the gun and back again, dozens of scenarios playing out before me. If my marriage to Victor taught me anything, it was not to trust anyone. That any promise is yet another chain binding you to someone.
But it also taught me to trust my gut.
And my gut told me to at least listen to what he had to say.
After all, he’d fed me. Clothed me. He may have been cold and aloof, but he was never downright abusive, even though he had every opportunity to hurt me…or worse. Yet he never did. Shouldn’t that count for something?
Slowly, I lowered the vase back onto the table. My knees shook from the strength it took to remain upright, and I eased onto the edge of the bed, my eyes never leaving his.
“I’ll listen.”
Relief crashed over his expression, the tension leaving his body. “Thank you.”
He stepped forward, his gun still outstretched, urging me to take it.
“I don’t want your gun, Henry. Just… Don’t make me regret this.”
He flashed a rare smile. “I’ll do my best.”