Chapter 13
Emerald
Pain woke me before anything else did. Not the quick kind of pain either.
Not the sharp sting of a scraped knee or the pulsing annoyance of a headache after too much champagne.
This was deeper. Heavier. The kind that lived beneath the skin and made every part of my body feel like it had been dragged through hell, then politely placed somewhere expensive afterward.
My ribs hurt. My head hurt. My shoulder burned. My lip throbbed with every unsteady breath I took.
For several seconds, I didn’t open my eyes. I just lay there, trapped between consciousness and whatever nightmare had followed me into sleep, trying to make sense of the fact that everything smelled wrong.
Not rain. Not blood. Not Nikolai. Something floral. Powdery. Expensive in a way that felt artificial.
My eyes snapped open. For one disoriented second, I stared at a ceiling I didn’t recognize.
Dark wood beams crossed above me, carved with intricate designs that looked old enough to belong in a castle.
A chandelier hung from the center, dripping crystal and gold, casting a soft glow across the room even though I didn’t remember anyone turning on lights.
I pushed myself upright too fast. Pain ripped through my side. A sharp breath tore out of me as I grabbed at my ribs, blinking hard while the room tilted violently around me.
Then everything came back. Rain. The road. Headlights. Nikolai’s hand wrapped around mine. Gunfire. His body jerking. His blood spreading beneath him on the pavement.
“Nikolai…”
His name left my mouth before I could stop it. My voice sounded wrong. Hoarse. Small. Nothing like me.
I shoved the blankets away and froze. My clothes were gone. The soaked, rain-heavy things I’d been wearing were completely missing. No ripped fabric clinging to my skin. No mud. No blood. No proof of the storm at all.
Instead, I was wearing a dress. A formal dress.
Black silk hugged my body in smooth, elegant lines, fitted at the waist and falling all the way to the floor like something meant for a funeral hosted by royalty.
The neckline was high, the sleeves long, the fabric soft enough that some stupid part of my brain noticed how expensive it felt before the rest of me caught up to the horror.
Someone had changed me. My stomach rolled .
The blood was gone from beneath my nails. The dirt had been scrubbed from my skin. My hair, which should have been tangled and wet from the rain, had been brushed until it fell in soft waves over my shoulders.
I touched my lip with trembling fingers and winced. Split. Swollen. Cleaned. Treated. A bandage had been placed carefully near my wrist where skin had torn open. Another bruise bloomed dark along my forearm, ugly against skin someone had clearly washed while I was unconscious.
Cold crawled over me.
No…Absolutely not!
I stumbled off the bed, the room spinning again as my bare feet hit a rug so thick it swallowed the sound of my steps.
The room around me was massive. Too massive.
Too polished. Cream walls. Black furniture.
Gold accents. Heavy curtains drawn over tall windows.
A vanity sat near one wall with a silver brush placed neatly beside a folded cloth.
Like someone had prepared me and I was expected.
My chest tightened until breathing became difficult.
“Nikolai?” I called again, louder this time.
Nothing answered. I crossed the room quickly, ignoring the ache tearing through my body, and grabbed the door handle. Locked. Of course. Of fucking course.
I rattled it hard enough for the metal to bite into my palm. “Open the door! ”
Silence. I hit it with my fist. Once. Twice. Again.
“Hey! Open the damn door!”
Nothing.
My pulse slammed against my throat. Images kept crashing through my head no matter how hard I tried to shove them away. Nikolai lying in the road. Rain washing blood from his mouth. His eyes trying to stay open while his body failed him. He’d been shot. He’d fallen, and I had been taken.
I hit the door harder.
“NIKOLAI!”
The sound of his name cracked through the room and came back to me empty.
That was when panic really started to sink its claws in.
Not the dramatic kind. Not screaming and crying and losing my mind immediately, although honestly, I was dangerously close.
This was colder. Worse. The kind that made my fingers go numb and my lungs forget how to fully expand.
I backed away from the door and turned slowly, searching the room. The window. I rushed toward the curtains and yanked them open. Iron bars covered the outside.
“Of course,” I whispered, laughing once because apparently hysteria had decided to join the party. “Because why wouldn’t this nightmare come with decorative prison bars? ”
The view beyond the glass showed only darkness and trees. No road. No lights close enough to matter. No sign of where I was. No sign of him.
I was not doing this. I was not standing here helpless in a dress some creep put me in while Nikolai bled out somewhere because of me. I turned back toward the door and slammed my fist against it again.
“Let me out!”
The lock clicked. I froze instantly. The door opened slowly and an older man stepped inside.
Not a guard. Not armed in any obvious way.
Not one of Nikolai’s men. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, white gloves, and an expression so calm it made something ugly twist in my stomach.
His gray hair was combed back neatly, his posture straight, his face blank with the kind of politeness that didn’t belong anywhere near kidnapping.
He inclined his head. “Good evening, Miss Deveraux.”
I stared at him. For a second, I genuinely couldn’t speak. Then my brain caught fire again.
“Where am I?”
His expression did not change. “You are safe.”
“Oh, wow. That is such a serial killer answer.” My voice shook despite the sarcasm. I hated that. “Where is Nikolai? ”
The man folded his hands in front of him. “You are expected downstairs.”
“I didn’t ask where I was expected. I asked where Nikolai is.”
“Mr. Drax is waiting for you.”
The name slammed into me like ice water dumped straight down my spine. Drax. Malrik Drax. The room seemed to have lost all of its air.
Malrik’s pale eyes. His black business card. The way he had looked at me like I was something already priced and labeled. The way Nikolai had moved between us. The way his voice had gone deadly when he told me not to call him.
Malrik gets inside people’s heads, that’s what Nikolai had said. Now I was standing in a locked bedroom, dressed in clothes I didn’t choose, with some horrifyingly polite butler telling me Malrik Drax was waiting for dinner.
My mouth went dry.
“What did you just say?”
The butler remained perfectly composed. “Mr. Drax is waiting for you in the dining hall.”
My stomach dropped. “No.”
The word came out too quiet .
The butler only stepped aside, gesturing toward the hallway. “This way, Miss Deveraux.”
I took a step back instead.
“No. I need to know if Nikolai is alive.”
“Mr. Drax will answer your questions.”
“Can you help me get out of here?”
“I’m afraid that will not be possible.”
Of course it wouldn’t, because apparently this man had chosen death by annoying blonde woman.
I glanced past him into the hallway, searching for a guard, a weapon, a window. Anything, but there was nothing except dim golden light, dark walls, and paintings watching from every direction like dead people in expensive frames.
“How many men are outside this room?” I asked.
The butler said without hesitation, “Enough.”
I huffed out a humorless laugh. “Great. Love the honesty. Very comforting.”
His expression stayed empty. I hated him a little. Actually, I hated everyone right now, but he was conveniently closest.
“Miss Deveraux,” he said calmly, “Mr. Drax does not appreciate being kept waiting. ”
Something about that sentence slid under my skin. Not because it was loud. It wasn’t, because it sounded rehearsed. As if people here had learned exactly what happened when Malrik Drax was inconvenienced and had no interest in experiencing it again.
My hands curled at my sides. Every part of me wanted to refuse. To throw something. To make this as difficult as possible because that was what I did. I pushed. I snapped. I made people regret thinking I would go quietly.
However, Nikolai’s face flashed through my mind again. Blood at the corner of his mouth. His body in the rain. If Malrik had him, or knew where he was, or had left him there—I had to know. So, I lifted my chin and stepped toward the door.
The butler turned without another word. I followed him into the hallway.
The first thing I noticed was the silence.
Not normal silence. Not the kind that came from an empty house late at night. This silence felt curated. Preserved. Like even the walls were trained not to breathe too loudly.
My bare feet were gone too. I realized suddenly someone had put me in heels. Black. Elegant. Ridiculous for a kidnapping.
“Who the hell puts heels on an unconscious woman?” I demanded .
The butler did not answer.
“Right. Forgot. Creepy staff handbook probably says no casual conversation with prisoners.”
The hallway stretched long and wide, lit by sconces shaped like old-fashioned candles.
The wallpaper was dark green, patterned with gold vines that crawled up toward the ceiling.
Every few feet, another painting hung in a heavy frame.
Men I didn’t recognize. Women with pale faces and dead eyes.
A hunting scene with dogs tearing into a stag.
Lovely. Not at all concerning.