35. Emma
EMMA
Eduard brings the note over to the bed and I sit up eagerly, holding my hand out and wiggling my fingers, telling him to give me the damn note. He hesitates and exchanges a look between Rurik and Artur before handing it to me.
The message is simple, direct, and formal.
As if it’s a legal communication between the FBI and one of their partners.
It’s really just a simple line of text that says exactly what Eduard said it did, to give me quietly over to the FBI and in return they’ll receive immunity and trade concessions.
But that’s not what has my heart pounding and a smile stretching across my face.
It’s the letterhead that has Victor Langford, Deputy Assistant Director on it.
I sit up so fast the sheet falls away from my breasts, but I don’t care. My eyes scan the message again, my heart pounding harder with each word.
Relief floods through me so intense it makes my hands shake. Langford is trying to save me. My mentor, the man who’s been like family since I was sixteen, is negotiating my rescue. He hasn’t given up on me. He’s moving Heaven and Earth to bring me home.
I turn to find all three of them watching me with identical expressions of wariness and disappointment.
“It’s from Langford,” I say, unable to keep the excitement from my voice. “He’s trying to negotiate my return. The FBI is offering immunity and trade concessions.”
Rurik’s expression doesn’t change, but something hardens in his gaze. He holds out his hand. “Let me see it.”
I hesitate for only a second before passing him the message. He reads it carefully, his jaw tightening with each line. Then he hands it to Artur, who’s now sitting up against the headboard.
“This isn’t a rescue,” Rurik says flatly. “This is containment.”
My stomach drops. “What are you talking about?”
Eduard reads the message twice, his gray eyes thoughtful. “The language is too vague. No specifics about extraction, no timeline, no verification protocols.”
“Because it’s encrypted,” I argue, my voice rising. “Langford can’t give details in case someone intercepts it.”
Artur passes the message back to me, his blue eyes cold. “If he wanted to rescue you, he’d use proper channels. Secure communication protocols you’d both recognize. This?” He gestures at the paper. “This is bait.”
“You don’t know him like I do.” My chest tightens with frustration. “Langford has been my mentor since I was sixteen. He’s like family. He would never hurt me.”
“Family doesn’t always mean safe,” Rurik says, his voice low and dangerous. “Especially when power and money are involved.”
“He’s trying to help me!” The words come out sharper than I intend. “You’re all so paranoid you can’t see someone actually trying to do the right thing.”
Eduard crosses his arms, his muscular frame blocking the doorway. “This isn’t even addressed to you, Emma. This is an offer to build an alliance with the FBI. There’s no hidden message. No promise of returning you to the FBI and clearing your name.”
“Maybe he’s still working out the details.” Even as I say it, doubt creeps into my voice, but I shove it down. “He needs time to coordinate everything.”
“He is trying to save his own ass,” Artur says quietly.
The words hit me like a slap. “Stop it. Just stop.” My hands clench into fists. “I know you don’t trust anyone outside your world, but Langford isn’t like that. He’s one of the good guys.”
Rurik’s jaw works, fighting to keep his temper in check. The muscles in his shoulders are taut beneath his shirt, and I remember how those shoulders feel under my hands. How safe I felt wrapped in his arms just hours ago. But right now that safety feels like a cage.
“Emma.” His voice softens slightly. “We’re trying to protect you.”
“By making me doubt the one person who’s always had my back?” I shake my head. “No. I won’t do it.”
The three of them exchange glances, some silent communication passing between them that I can’t decipher. Finally, Rurik exhales slowly.
“Fine.” He turns toward the door. “Believe what you want.”
Artur slides out of bed, his tall frame moving with predatory grace. He pauses beside me, his hand briefly touching my shoulder. The warmth of his palm seeps through my shirt, and despite my anger my body responds to his touch.
“Just be careful,” he warns.
Then they’re gone, leaving me alone with the message clutched in my trembling hands.
I spend the rest of the morning in the small office they’ve set up for me, diving back into my research. Work has always been my refuge, the place where everything makes sense. Numbers don’t lie. Data doesn’t betray.
The financial trails I’ve been following through the bride auction funds are complex, deliberately obscured through multiple shell companies and offshore accounts. But I’m good at this. Better than good. I peel back layer after layer, tracking the money as it moves through the system.
That’s when I find it.
A significant portion of the funds are being laundered through a private security firm. Sentinel Strategic Solutions. The name sounds legitimate and professional. I dig deeper, pulling up their corporate filings, their board of directors.
My breath catches.
Third name on the list: Marcus Whitfield. Langford’s brother-in-law.
I stare at the screen, my heart pounding in my ears. It has to be a coincidence. Whitfield is a common enough name in security circles. Langford’s brother-in-law runs a legitimate firm. There’s probably a perfectly reasonable explanation.
But my hands are shaking as I cross-reference the data. The money flowing through Sentinel Strategic Solutions connects directly to three of the shell companies I’ve already identified as part of the auction’s financial network.
I sit back in my chair, my mind racing. Langford wouldn’t be involved in human trafficking. He’s dedicated his entire career to fighting it. He’s the one who taught me how to track these bastards, how to build cases that stick.
There has to be an explanation. Maybe Whitfield doesn’t know his company is being used. Maybe it’s a front that someone else is operating without his knowledge. Maybe Langford is investigating it himself and hasn’t told me because he didn’t have any concrete evidence yet.
Yes. That must be it.
I save my findings to an encrypted file and close the laptop. My head aches and the walls of the office suddenly feel too close.
I need air. I need to move.
The sound of voices downstairs draws my attention. Male voices, unfamiliar ones, mixed with the deeper tones I’ve come to recognize as Rurik, Artur, and Eduard.
And one female voice.
Krystal.
I’m out of my chair and moving before I can think better of it. My feet carry me down the hallway, toward the stairs. As I descend, I can see into the foyer.
Krystal stands near the door, looking every inch the professional in dark slacks and a fitted blouse that shows off her curves. But it’s the man beside her that makes my blood run cold.
Volkov.
He’s not alone. Four other men flank him, all wearing expensive suits that can’t quite hide the violence in their eyes. These are predators, every one of them.
I start to move toward Krystal, relief flooding through me at seeing my friend. But then her eyes meet mine, and she gives the slightest shake of her head. A warning.
I freeze on the stairs.
Rurik, Artur, and Eduard stand between the visitors and the rest of the house.
Between the visitors and me. Their posture is deceptively casual, but I can see the tension in every line of their bodies.
Rurik’s hand rests near his hip, where I know he keeps a gun.
Artur’s shoulders are squared, his height making him tower over most of the other men.
Eduard’s gray eyes are cold, calculating.
“Gentlemen.” Rurik’s voice is smooth, but there’s steel underneath. “To what do we owe this visit?”
Volkov’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “We heard you have a guest. We thought it would be polite to pay our respects.”
“How thoughtful.” Artur’s tone could freeze vodka.
Volkov’s gaze slides past them, finding me on the stairs. His eyes travel slowly down my body, lingering on my breasts, my hips, and my legs. I feel stripped bare under that stare, and nausea churns in my stomach.
“There she is,” Volkov says softly. “Even more beautiful than the rumors.”
“The office,” Eduard says, his voice cutting through the tension. “We can talk there.”
It’s not a suggestion.
We all move into the large office off the main hallway. The room is dominated by a massive desk and leather furniture. Rurik takes position behind the desk, a clear power move. Artur and Eduard flank him.
Volkov and his men arrange themselves on the opposite side. Krystal moves to stand near the window, her posture submissive but her eyes alert. She’s playing a role, I realize. The obedient companion. The decoration.
And she’s damn good at it.
“Please, sit,” Krystal says, her voice soft. “Can I get anyone a drink?”
One of Volkov’s men nods, and she moves to the bar with practiced ease, pouring vodka into crystal glasses. Her movements are graceful, efficient. She serves the men without meeting their eyes, the perfect picture of deference.
I’m still standing near the door, uncertain where I fit in this tableau.
“Come in, Emma,” Rurik says. His dark eyes find mine, and there’s a warning in them. “Join us.”
I move into the room, acutely aware of every gaze that follows me. I choose a chair near Artur, and his hand briefly touches the small of my back as I sit. The gesture is possessive, protective. A clear message.
“So,” Volkov says, accepting a glass from Krystal. “Let’s talk business.”
“There’s no business to discuss,” Eduard says flatly.
“No?” Volkov’s eyebrows rise. “I was under the impression that the lovely Emma here was acquired through the auction. Which means she’s a commodity.”
My stomach turns. Commodity. Like I’m a car or a piece of furniture.
“She’s not for sale,” Rurik says, his voice dropping to a dangerous register.
“Everything is for sale at the right price.” Volkov takes a sip of his vodka, his eyes never leaving me. “Perhaps we could negotiate a loan arrangement. A week, maybe two. I’d pay handsomely.”
Artur’s hand clenches on the arm of his chair. “No.”
“Not even to borrow,” Eduard adds, his tone making it clear the subject is closed.
But Volkov isn’t deterred. “You’re being unreasonable. Sharing resources is good business. Builds relationships.” His gaze slides over me again, lingering on the curve of my breasts beneath my sweater. “I’m sure Emma wouldn’t mind. Would you, sweetheart?”
The endearment makes my skin crawl. I open my mouth, but Rurik speaks first.
“She’s not available. Not now, not ever. If you came here hoping to negotiate, you’ve wasted your time.”
The temperature in the room drops. Volkov’s smile fades, and the men behind him shift, their hands moving toward concealed weapons. Rurik, Artur, and Eduard don’t move, but the threat of violence hangs thick in the air.
I can barely breathe. This is what I was at the auction. A prize to be won, traded, or borrowed. These men don’t see me as a person. They see an asset, a possession, just something to be used.
Krystal moves smoothly through the tension, refilling glasses, her presence somehow diffusing the worst of the aggression. She’s remarkable, I realize. Navigating this world of dangerous men with a skill that looks effortless but must have taken years to develop.
“Gentlemen,” she says softly. “Perhaps we should all take a moment.”
Volkov’s attention shifts to her, and something predatory enters his expression. “You can see what this one has become. I can help with that for Emma.”
“That’s not training,” Artur says coldly. “That’s being smart enough to know when men are being idiots.”
A beat of silence. Then Volkov laughs, the sound harsh and unexpected. “Fair enough.” He stands, his men following suit. “We’ll be going. But the offer stands. When you tire of her, let me know.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” Rurik says.
Volkov and his men file out, their footsteps echoing in the hallway. Krystal follows them to the door, and I hear the murmur of voices, the sound of the front door closing.
Then she’s back, moving quickly to my side. Her hand finds mine, squeezes briefly. In that moment of contact, I feel something pressed into my palm. A small piece of paper.
“I should go,” she says, her voice still playing the role. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
Eduard escorts her out, and I slip the note into my pocket without looking at it.
The moment the door closes, I sag in my chair. “Jesus Christ. They were evaluating me. Like I’m a horse they’re thinking of buying.”
“Yes.” Rurik’s jaw is tight. “And now they know we won’t negotiate. Which makes you either worthless to them or worth taking by force.”
The thought sends ice through my veins.
I excuse myself and head upstairs, my legs shaky. In the privacy of the bathroom, I unfold Krystal’s note.
Tomorrow, 2 p.m., the café on Birch Street. Come alone if you can. We need to talk. K.
I flush the note down the toilet and splash cold water on my face. My reflection looks pale, frightened. I barely recognize myself.
When I emerge, Eduard is waiting in the hallway. His expression is serious, troubled.
“We need to talk,” he says.
My heart sinks. “About what?”
“Cole’s login. The one that was used to access your files.” He pauses, his gray eyes searching mine. “My resources finally traced how it was compromised.”
“And?”
“It was accessed through a supervisory override. That kind of access requires Deputy Assistant Director clearance.”
The words don’t make sense at first. Then they do, and the world tilts.
“Langford,” I whisper.
Eduard nods slowly. “Langford.”