Emma
I don’t speak during the drive.
The three men who bought me sit in silence as well, which suits me fine.
The SUV is expensive, armored, and moves through the city with the kind of confidence that comes from knowing no one will stop you. I catalog every detail. The driver’s posture. The route we take. Street names when I can catch them through the tinted windows.
The blond one sits across from me, his pale blue eyes watching with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
He’s the one who spoke first at the auction, the one who dropped my chain like it burned him.
The dark-haired one with the crooked smile lounges beside him, relaxed in a way that feels deliberately casual.
The third man, lighter brown hair and gray eyes, sits to my left, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
None of them have introduced themselves. I haven’t asked.
My wrists ache where the zip ties cut into them earlier. My face throbs where I was hit. But pain is familiar. Pain I can work through. What I can’t afford is panic.
I study the blond man’s watch. Expensive. Swiss, probably. His suit is tailored perfectly, dark and understated. Everything about him screams control and discipline.
The dark-haired one catches me looking and grins. “You’re quiet.”
I don’t respond.
“She’s planning,” the blond one says without looking away from me. His voice is deep, accented, and maddeningly calm.
My jaw tightens. He’s right, and I hate that he can read me so easily.
The man beside me shifts slightly. “Can you blame her?”
“No,” the blond one replies. “I would do the same.”
We drive for what feels like an hour, though it’s probably less. The city gives way to suburbs, then to darker roads lined with trees. Wealth insulates itself from the world, and these men clearly have plenty of it. I know they’re Bratva, but I don’t recognize them.
When we finally turn through a set of massive iron gates, I lean forward slightly to get a better view. The estate beyond is enormous, with stone walls surrounding the property.
Security cameras are positioned at regular intervals while floodlights illuminate manicured grounds that stretch into the darkness.
This isn’t just a house. It’s a damn fortress. Great, just great.
The SUV pulls up to the main entrance, and the men exit first. The one with gray eyes offers me his hand. I ignore it and climb out on my own, my boots crunching against gravel as I take in my surroundings.
The mansion looms above us, all sharp angles and cold stone. Windows glow with warm light, but there’s nothing welcoming about this place.
I count the visible security personnel. At least six are within immediate sight. Probably more I can’t see.
“This way,” the blond one says, gesturing toward the entrance.
I follow because I don’t have a choice yet. But I’m already mapping the layout in my head.
The distance between the main house and the outer wall. The placement of cameras. The blind spots I might be able to exploit.
Inside, the mansion is as cold and expensive as I expected. Marble floors. High ceilings. Art that probably costs more than my entire childhood home. A woman in her fifties appears from a side hallway, her expression neutral as she approaches.
“Show her to the east wing,” the blond one instructs her.
The woman nods and gestures for me to follow. I glance back at the three men, but they’ve already turned away, speaking quietly among themselves while guards follow the woman and me up the stairs.
The east wing is just as opulent as the rest of the house. The woman leads me to a large bedroom with an attached bathroom and what looks like a sitting area.
Everything is pristine. Untouched. Like a hotel room designed for someone who will never truly live there.
“There are clothes in the closet,” the woman says in accented English.
She leaves before I can respond, the door clicking shut behind her. I wait thirty seconds, then try the handle and am surprised to find it unlocked.
A trap of some kind, I’m sure.
I move through the room quickly, checking windows, testing locks, looking for anything I can use.
The windows are reinforced, probably bulletproof. Through the partially open door, I can make out a hallway with cameras positioned at both ends.
There’s a service corridor visible near the stairwell, a potential exit if I can reach it. And avoid the guards stationed at the open door to this bedroom.
I file everything away and force myself to wait.
Hours pass. I shower, scrubbing away dried blood and the stench of the warehouse. I find clothes in the closet that fit well enough.
Jeans.
A fitted black sweater.
Boots that are sturdy and broken in, like someone planned for this. Which of course, they did. Why else would they go to a bride auction if they weren’t expecting to bring back a woman?
By the time the house falls silent, it’s well past midnight. I move to the door and listen.
Nothing. No footsteps. No voices.
Just the low hum of expensive climate control and distant security systems.
I slip into the hallway and head for the service corridor I spotted earlier.
The first checkpoint is easy. A single guard is stationed near the kitchen entrance, distracted by his phone.
I wait until he turns away then move past him like a shadow. Years of training make my footsteps silent, my breathing controlled.
The second checkpoint is harder. Two guards, both alert, are positioned near a side exit that leads to the grounds. I study them for a full minute, watching their patterns, waiting for the moment when both look away simultaneously.
The moment I’ve been waiting for comes and I’m through the door and into the night before either of them realizes I was there.
The grounds are massive, but I’ve already memorized the layout from the drive in.
I keep to the shadows, avoiding floodlights and camera angles. My heart pounds, but my hands are steady. I’ve trained for this kind of situation.
I’m halfway to the outer wall when a figure steps out of the darkness ahead of me.
The blond man.
He stands with his hands in his pockets, completely relaxed, like he’s been waiting for me. In the moonlight, his pale eyes seem almost luminous.
“Impressive,” he says quietly. “You made it farther than I expected.”
I don’t hesitate and attack him. My fist drives toward his face, but he blocks it effortlessly and sidesteps. I spin, aiming a kick at his ribs, but he catches my leg and forces me back. I recover quickly, pressing forward with a combination of strikes designed to overwhelm and disorient.
He counters every single one. The asshole.
We move through the darkness like dancers, brutal and precise. He’s faster than he looks, stronger than I anticipated.
But I’m desperate, and desperation makes me vicious. I manage to land a solid hit to his jaw that snaps his head to the side.
He doesn’t even flinch.
Instead, he moves in close, catching both my wrists and spinning me around. My back slams against the cold stone wall of a nearby building, and suddenly he’s pressed against me, his body pinning mine in place. I struggle, but his grip is iron. His breath is warm against my ear.
“You were never going to escape,” he says quietly. “Not tonight.”
“Let me go,” I snarl, twisting against him.
“No.”
The single word is absolute. Final. Something about the way he says it, the certainty in his voice, makes heat flare through me that has nothing to do with anger.
I hate it. I hate him. I hate that my body responds to the pressure of his against mine, to the way his hands hold my wrists just tight enough to control without bruising.
“You don’t own me,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Don’t I?” His voice is low, rough. “I paid a lot of money for you.”
I try to wrench free again, but he shifts his weight, pressing closer. The movement sends a jolt of awareness through me that I absolutely refuse to acknowledge.
“That makes you a buyer, not an owner,” I snap. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” His mouth is so close to my ear I feel the words more than hear them. “You’re here. In my home. Under my protection.”
“Protection?” I laugh, bitter and sharp. “Is that what you call hunting me down?”
“You attacked me first.” There’s amusement in his voice now, dark and infuriating.
“You were waiting for me.”
“Yes.” He doesn’t deny it. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice you studying the guard rotations?” His grip on my wrists tightens fractionally. “I’ve been watching you.”
The admission sends heat crawling up my spine.
He’s been watching me. The thought should terrify me. Instead, it does something else entirely.
“Who are you?” I demand, my voice sharp with anger and something I won’t name.
He’s quiet for a moment. “Rurik.”
The name is foreign, harsh, and commanding. It fits him.
“Well, Rurik,” I spit it like an insult, “you can let me go now.”
“I don’t think so.” His hand slides from my wrist to my hip. “And you are?”
“None of your business.”
“Everything about you is my business now.” His voice is soft but absolute. “Your name.”
I want to refuse.
Want to deny him even this small thing. But he’s pressed against me, his body a cage I can’t escape. Besides, he’ll find out my name soon enough. If he hasn’t already. This could be a test.
“Emma,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Emma.” He says it like he’s tasting it, like it means something.
I should push him away. Should fight harder.
But his hand is warm on my hip, and when I shift against him, I feel exactly how much he wants me. The knowledge sends a dangerous thrill through me.
Maybe this is how I survive.
Maybe if I let him think he’s won, if I give him this, he’ll lower his guard. Trust me enough to make a mistake. It’s strategic and tactical.
Well, that’s what I tell myself when I stop struggling. I refuse to admit I’m attracted to him.
“Emma,” he says again, and this time it sounds like a question.
I answer by tilting my head back and kissing him.
The kiss is furious, all teeth and anger and something darker. His hand tightens on my hip, pulling me closer, and I wrap my arms around his neck because I need the leverage, need to feel like I have some control even as I’m giving it up.
His other hand slides down my thigh, hitching my leg around his waist. The position opens me to him, and when he grinds against me, I gasp into his mouth.
He makes quick work of my clothes, his movements efficient and sure. When he pushes inside me, I bite down on his shoulder to keep from crying out. The stretch of him is almost too much, pleasure edged with pain, and I hate that it feels good. Hate that I want more.
This is about planning, I remind myself. This is just to get him to let down his guard so that I can figure out a way to escape.
He sets a brutal pace, pinning me against the wall with each thrust and my thoughts scatter. I meet him stroke for stroke, my nails digging into his shoulders. This isn’t gentle. It isn’t tender. It’s a fight we’re both losing. Or winning. I haven’t decided yet.
When I come apart, his name is on my lips, and I hate myself for it. The pleasure crashes through me in waves, leaving me shaking and breathless. He follows moments later, his grip on me tightening as he buries his face in my neck.
For a few seconds, neither of us moves. Then reality crashes back.
I push at his chest, and this time he lets me go. My legs are unsteady as I find my footing, and I have to lean against the wall for support. He watches me as I straighten my clothes with shaking hands.
“Emma,” he starts.
“Don’t.” I cut him off, my voice raw. I can’t look at him, can’t face what I just did.
Footsteps echo in the distance. Guards, probably alerted by the commotion. I’m still trapped here, still his captive, and now I’ve given him something I can never take back.
I force myself to meet his eyes. “Next time I run,” I say through clenched teeth, “I won’t let you catch me.”
The guards round the corner, flashlights cutting through the darkness. One of them calls out something in Russian. Rurik answers without looking away from me.
“Take her back to her room,” he says in English, his voice flat. “Post two guards at the door.”
As they move toward me, I hold his gaze. I won’t look away first. I won’t give him that.
But inside, I’m already planning. Already calculating. Because next time, I will get away.
I have to.