Emma
I wake to sunlight streaming through reinforced windows and the immediate, crushing realization that last night wasn’t a nightmare.
I’m still here. Still trapped in this fortress disguised as a mansion. Still the property of three Bratva bosses who paid ten million dollars for me like I’m a piece of art they wanted to add to their collection.
And I slept with one of them.
The memory hits me like a physical blow. The way my body responded to him even as my mind screamed that it was wrong, that I was using him, that this was strategy and nothing more.
Except it didn’t feel like strategy when I came apart in his arms.
I sit up slowly, my muscles protesting. The bedroom is exactly as I left it last night before my failed escape attempt.
Expensive furniture carefully placed around the room for the best aesthetics. It even has a sitting area with chairs that look both elegant and cozy. Everything is designed to look comfortable while reminding me that I don’t belong here.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, testing my balance. My wrists ache where the shackles cut into them from the auction. My face throbs where I was hit. But pain is familiar. Pain means I’m still alive and still fighting.
I move to the door first and try the handle.
Locked, as expected.
I press my ear against the wood and listen to the footsteps in the hallway. At least two guards, maybe more.
Their voices are low, speaking Russian I can’t quite make out through the thick door.
Next, I check the windows.
The glass is reinforced, probably bulletproof. I test the locks anyway, searching for weaknesses.
Nothing.
The frames are solid, the mechanisms are designed to prevent exactly what I’m trying to do.
I move through the room methodically, cataloging everything. The furniture is heavy, expensive, and bolted to the floor in some cases.
The bathroom has no windows, just a ventilation fan that’s too small to crawl through.
The closet is stocked with clothes in various sizes, which means they planned this. They knew they were bringing someone back from that auction.
The thought makes my stomach twist. How long have they been planning this? How long have they been looking for someone like me?
How many others are there?
Although during my brief escape attempt I didn’t see any other women being held against their will. Not that I would, of course.
I return to the door and study the lock mechanism. It’s electronic and controlled from the outside. No keyhole I can pick. No manual override I can access from this side. Whoever designed this room knew what they were doing.
Fine. If I can’t pick the lock, I’ll test the response time.
I grab the door handle, twist it hard, then slam my shoulder against the wood. The impact sends a jolt of pain through my arm, but I do it again. And again. On the fourth hit, an alarm blares through the room, loud enough to make my ears ring.
Perfect.
I step back and count. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
The lock disengages with a sharp click. The door swings open, and two guards fill the doorway, weapons drawn. They’re both large, well-trained, and clearly annoyed.
“Problem?” one of them asks in heavily accented English.
I cross my arms and lean against the wall, forcing myself to look calm even though my heart is racing. “Just wondering if you would come to my rescue if I need it.”
The guard’s expression doesn’t change. “Get back from the door.”
“Or what?” I challenge. “You’ll shoot me? Pretty sure your bosses wouldn’t appreciate that after spending ten million dollars to get me here.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t raise his weapon. Point proven. They won’t hurt me. At least not seriously. Not without permission from their boss.
I use the moment to study the hallway beyond them. Wide corridor with marble floors. There are cameras positioned at both ends, angled to cover the entire space, and a service door about twenty feet to the left, probably leading to a stairwell. Another door directly across from mine is closed.
“Back. Now,” the second guard says, stepping forward.
I hold my ground for another three seconds, memorizing every detail I can see. Then I step back into the room, and they slam the door shut. The lock engages immediately.
I smile despite everything. Five seconds. That’s how long it takes them to respond to an alarm. And they’re cautious about using force. Both are useful pieces of information.
I move to the bed and sit on the edge, my mind racing. Someone inside the Bureau betrayed me. That’s the only explanation for what happened at the warehouse. The operation was classified. Only a handful of people knew the location and timing.
Victor Langford approved the sting personally.
But I trust him, not just because he’s the deputy assistant director of the FBI.
He’s been my mentor since I was sixteen, since my parents were murdered, and he was the lead investigator who actually gave a damn about a scared kid asking too many questions.
He encouraged me to join the FBI. He supported my career.
He’s the closest thing to family I have.
I shake my head and move on to real suspects.
Supervisory Special Agent Daniel Hayes coordinated logistics.
He opposed the plan from the start, arguing it was too risky and too fast, despite the months of surveillance I’d put into it.
But maybe he was right. Or maybe he was trying to stop it for other reasons.
Special Agent Marcus Cole handled digital surveillance and communications. He’s brilliant with tech but nervous under pressure and was always looking for approval. Always worried about making mistakes. Could someone have gotten to him? Threatened him? Paid him?
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to think clearly. Whoever sold me out knew exactly where I’d be and when. They knew the tactical team’s positions. They knew how to cut my communications without raising immediate alarms.
That level of access points to someone high up.
Someone with authority and clearance. The thought makes me sick.
The FBI was like family to me. I respect the agency and believe in it deeply.
The thought of a mole, of someone purposefully sabotaging me makes me furious.
But that someone would set me up to be sold to the mafia -- that makes me sick to my stomach.
And then there’s Krystal.
My best friend vanished a year ago, and I’ve spent every day since trying to find her.
The official investigation went cold within weeks, but I couldn’t let it go. I followed every lead, chased every shadow, until I connected her disappearance to the underground bride auction network.
Is she still alive? Did someone buy her the way these men bought me? Is she trapped somewhere, scared and alone, wondering why I haven’t found her yet?
The guilt is crushing. I promised myself I’d bring her home. Instead, I’m locked in a bedroom in a Bratva fortress with no way out and no way to help her.
I stand abruptly, needing to move, needing to do something. I can’t just sit here and wait for whatever comes next. I have to keep testing. Keep looking for weaknesses.
My eyes land on the air vent near the ceiling. It’s small, probably just for climate control, but it’s worth checking. I drag one of the chairs over and climb onto the bed frame, using the headboard for balance as I reach up.
The vent cover is held in place by four screws. I don’t have a screwdriver, but I try prying at the edges with my fingernails anyway. The metal doesn’t budge. I push harder, wedging my fingers into the narrow gap between the cover and the ceiling.
Nothing.
I shift my weight, trying to get better leverage, and that’s when I see it. A small black lens tucked into the corner where the ceiling meets the wall, hidden behind the decorative molding and angled to cover the entire room.
A fucking camera.
Fury swipes through me along with a shiver of unease that courses down my spine. They’ve been watching me this whole time. Every move I made. Every moment I thought I was alone. I shouldn’t be surprised. With all the security at this place, why would I think they wouldn’t be monitoring me?
I freeze on the bed frame, my mind racing. Did they watch me sleep? Probably. Did they see me in the bathroom? The thought of such violation makes my skin crawl.
Then another thought hits me, worse than the first.
Did Rurik watch me before he came outside last night? Did he see me studying the guard rotations, planning my escape route? Is that how he knew exactly where to wait for me?
I stare at the camera lens, my heart pounding. I want to rip it out of the wall. Want to smash it into pieces. But that would be pointless. There are probably others I haven’t found yet.
Instead, I meet the camera’s gaze directly, letting whoever is watching see the fury in my eyes then calmly flip them my middle finger. Take that, motherfuckers!