Chapter Twenty-One
Mila’s POV
The night began quietly. Too quietly, maybe. I should have recognized it for what it was—a false calm, a lull that came before tumult. But I was tired of seeing threats in every shadow, exhausted from weeks of mounting tension that had pulled me so taut I thought I might snap.
So when the house settled into unusual stillness, snow falling in thick silence outside the windows, I let myself pretend it meant peace.
I was in the library, surrounded by books I wasn’t actually reading.
Psychology texts I’d had brought from my old apartment, reminders of a life that felt like it belonged to someone else.
I’d opened one on developmental psychology—thinking maybe I should start preparing, understanding what was coming—but the words kept blurring on the page.
Instead, I found myself thinking about Alexei’s face the night we’d found out I was pregnant.
I thought of the way shock had flickered across his features, cracking the careful mask he always wore.
How his hands had trembled—actually trembled—when he’d placed them on my stomach for the first time.
The dangerous softness that had entered his eyes, something almost like wonder mixed with that ever-present possessiveness.
For the first time since he’d claimed me, since he’d made me his wife and dragged me into this world of violence and blood, I’d felt like I held power, too. Not just him. Not just his strength, his protection, his all-consuming obsession.
I was reaching for my tea—now cold, forgotten for the past hour—when I heard it.
A sound that didn’t belong. Too sharp, too deliberate in the peaceful quiet. I looked up just as the library window exploded inward.
Glass shattered in a spray of glittering fragments, winter air rushing in with enough force to send papers flying.
I opened my mouth to scream, but rough hands grabbed me from behind before any sound could escape.
A palm clamped over my mouth—latex gloves, I registered distantly, no fingerprints—and an arm banded around my waist like iron.
Three more men in black tactical gear poured through the broken window with terrifying efficiency.
There was no wasted movement, no hesitation.
I tried to scream anyway, the sound muffled against the hand covering my mouth.
I tried to kick, to claw, to remember anything from the self-defense videos I’d watched in a fit of paranoia weeks ago.
But my attacker was strong—too strong—and they’d clearly planned this down to the second.
No alarms blared. No guards came running.
Then I felt a sharp prick in my arm. A needle.
No!
I tried to fight it, tried to stay conscious through sheer force of will. But whatever they’d injected was fast-acting and efficient. The room started to tilt, edges going soft and blurry. My legs gave out, and the only thing keeping me upright was the arm still locked around my waist.
The last thing I heard before darkness claimed me was the sound of a phone ringing somewhere in the house.
***********
I woke to cold. Bone-deep, penetrating cold that seeped through my clothes and settled in my joints. My head throbbed with the aftermath of whatever drug they’d used, and my mouth was dry.
It took me a moment to remember how to open my eyes. When I did, the world swam sickeningly before settling into dim, industrial focus.
A warehouse. I was in a warehouse.
The ceiling was high and dark, supported by rusted beams that looked like they might collapse at any moment.
Weak light filtered through grimy windows somewhere above, barely illuminating the space.
The air smelled of oil and rust and something else—something organic and unpleasant that I didn’t want to identify.
I tried to move and discovered I couldn’t. Ropes bound my wrists behind me, tied to a metal chair that was bolted to the concrete floor. My ankles were similarly secured. The ropes were rough—industrial grade—and already my wrists felt raw where the ropes pressed into my skin.
Panic clawed at my throat, hot and immediate. I forced it down and tried to slowly breathe through my nose while I assessed the situation.
The warehouse was mostly empty except for some abandoned equipment and stacked crates. No windows at ground level. One door visible to my left, metal and heavy. Probably locked. Definitely guarded.
And I wasn’t alone.
Men moved in the shadows—I counted four, maybe five. They spoke in low voices, switching between Italian and Russian with the ease of people comfortable in both languages.
“Ah, she wakes.” One of the men stepped into the light, and my stomach dropped.
His face was handsome in a cruel way, with dark eyes that assessed me like I was meat on a hook. When he smiled, I saw blood on his teeth.
“Welcome back, Mrs. Lobanov.” His English was accented but perfect.
“What do you want from me?” I asked, mustering all the courage I could.
“You’re leverage, little bride,” he answered, shrugging like that was all the explanation needed.
The Italians.
My heart pounded against the ropes.
“Alexei,” I whispered his name, not as a plea but as a promise.
If there was one thing I knew, it was that he would come. The man who had claimed my body and heart would burn the world to find me.
He would.