Chapter 33
Chapter thirty-three
JUDE GRAVES
I’ve never been to this penthouse before.
That’s the first thing I notice as the elevator climbs in silent, seamless ascension, glass walls revealing nothing but black sky and the glow of the city below.
I still have the fading bruises on my face from when Alexei punished me for attacking Erik. The fucker.
Alexei requested my presence here tonight without exactly telling me why.
When the doors slide open, I’m greeted by gray and white marble floors, along with low, dark furniture.
On the dining room table, there are buckets of champagne, wine, and vodka as well as platters of fruit and delicate cuts of meat arranged like art.
Alexei stands near the windows, hands folded behind his back. He turns as I step inside. “You came alone,” he says.
“You told me to.”
A faint smile curves his mouth. “I wondered if you’d bring Adriana. You’ve been pretty close lately.”
I stare at him, over his shit already. “I don’t like her, if that’s what you’re wondering.
She’s a good fuck. That’s it.” Even though we don’t have sex anymore, talking in that demeaning way about her may help her stay alive.
She didn’t want me to go. She begged me not to leave her alone, but I told her to use the kitchen knife if Erik comes back for revenge while I’m gone.
“Come sit,” he adds.
For a moment, I wonder if this is about the man from the ball the other night.
The one who stood beside a woman with eyes that looked a little familiar.
But that’s impossible. I push the thought away and realize that there’s someone else in the room.
He’s seated at the table, one ankle resting casually over his knee, posture relaxed.
Early forties, maybe. Blonde hair brushed back neatly from a striking face that borders on beautiful.
High cheekbones. Sharp jaw. Blue eyes that are almost too bright under the recessed lighting. He studies me closely.
“Jude,” Alexei says smoothly. “This is Henrik S?rensen.”
Henrik rises, offering his hand. His grip is cool and firm, lingering a little long for my comfort. “I’ve heard a great deal about you,” he says, his voice soft, faintly accented. Scandinavian, I think.
“Nice to meet you,” I reply, because that’s what’s expected.
“Sit,” Alexei instructs.
I do.
Henrik pours champagne into a narrow flute and hands it to me himself. His fingers brush mine as I take it. “To new partnerships,” he says.
We drink. The conversation begins innocently enough.
Markets. Private events. Exclusive sponsorships.
Henrik speaks about cultivating talent, protecting investments, and some other shit.
Apparently he's an investor who has years of experience in banking.
I can't tell if he's still a banker or just an investor now. Honestly, I have no fucking idea what they’re talking about, and I don’t have the faintest idea why the hell Alexei even brought me in the first place.
Every time my glass empties, it’s refilled before I can decline. Champagne becomes vodka. I don’t keep track of how much I drink, and eventually my body feels warmer. Their voices begin to stretch slightly, like they’re traveling ahead of me through a long tunnel.
Henrik laughs at something Alexei says, and the sound makes me nauseous for some reason.
I’m nauseous. What the hell…
I blink. The marble floor beneath my shoes seems farther away than it should be. I set my glass down carefully. “Excuse me,” I murmur, pushing back from the table. I don't know where I'm going, but there must be a bathroom down the hall.
My legs respond half a second too late, and when I stand, the world tilts. My knee bumps the table, rattling the glasses. Alexei doesn’t move to steady me. Henrik does, his hand slipping around my elbow.
“Careful,” he says gently.
My heart begins to pound, fast and heavy. “What did you—” The words feel thick in my mouth.
Alexei waves a lazy hand as if dismissing a server. “Relax,” he says, leaning back into the leather chair. “Have fun, Henrik. I’ll wait until you’re done. Wouldn't want any issues the first time.”
Have fun. First time. What?
What…why are you…
The words scrape down my spine. On the wall in front of Alexei, a massive television flickers to life, high volume blasting through the penthouse.
Some late-night talk show with someone laughing on the screen.
Ice clinks in his glass as he pours himself another drink. He isn’t leaving. He’s...staying.
My stomach drops so fast it feels like I’ve stepped off a ledge.
What—
Henrik’s fingers close more firmly around my arm. My body follows because it doesn’t seem to understand that it should resist.
“This wasn’t—” I start, but my tongue feels thick, the syllables sticking together.
“You’re safe,” Henrik says quietly, guiding me away from the table. His breath brushes the shell of my ear.
Fuck. No.
Cream walls and abstract art scream at me as we make our way down an endless hall.
My heartbeat pounds in my ears, and every step feels slightly delayed.
I tell my legs to stop. They don’t. The air smells faintly of cologne and polished wood and perhaps sweetness from the fruit and champagne that still coats the back of my throat.
A door opens.
The bedroom is expansive, with a perfectly made bed in the center. Soft amber light from a lamp pours over the room.
No.
No, no, fucking no.
Henrik steers me inside. The door closes behind us with a quiet click that feels louder than if he had slammed it. I try to wrench my arm free, but my muscles answer as if they’re moving in a nightmare. Just fucking useless.
He carefully eases me down onto the edge of the bed, my body refusing to fight back, even if my mind is screaming.
“I didn’t agree to this,” I manage, the words barely sounding coherent.
Henrik lowers himself so we’re eye level. His blue eyes are almost luminous up close, studying my face. “You don’t need to,” he says.
My pulse spikes, hard enough that I feel it in my throat.
I push upward, intent on standing, but the room tilts more violently this time.
The floor slides sideways. My balance disappears entirely, and I fall back onto the cool sheets of the mattress.
The ceiling swims, lights stretching into blurred halos.
Fuck. I can’t…
Henrik’s hand moves to my shoulder, pressing me down. “Shh.”
And then it hits.
Not darkness or oblivion, but something worse.
My body goes heavy, as if gravity has doubled. My fingers won’t curl properly. My legs won’t respond. Panic surges through my mind, but it’s trapped behind flesh that refuses to obey.
I can feel everything.
That’s the horror of it.
Henrik stands, unbuttoning his jacket, draping it neatly over a chair as though this is nothing but a casual experience for him. My breathing turns shallow. From beyond the door, through the wall, I hear the TV.
“Does he fight?” Henrik calls, not raising his voice.
There’s a brief pause. I can picture Alexei considering. “Not with what we gave him,” he answers smoothly. “It’s what I give my women.”
My soul withers.
He settles his weight on top of me, his blonde hair falling across sharp cheekbones. His blue eyes are dark now, and he's not smiling anymore. “Look at you. Can’t even stand up.” His voice is a Scandinavian rasp that cuts through the fog in my head.
“I didn’t—” I gasp as his knee pushes between my thighs, forcing my legs apart. The denim of his jeans is rough against my inner leg. “Get off. Get the—the fuck off me.”
He ignores me, one hand leaving my wrist to fumble with my belt. My body freezes in absolute terror.
“No, stop.” My voice is slurred, thick with drugs and panic. I try to lift my arm. It trembles violently, then falls uselessly against the mattress. A strong hand pins my wrists above my head, fingers digging into the tendons.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers along my jaw, tilting my face from side to side as if assessing symmetry.
Before I can try to protest again, his mouth crashes down on mine.
His lips are hard and demanding. His tongue forces its way past my teeth, chasing the lingering taste of champagne.
A low, helpless moan vibrates in my chest. I turn my head to the side, breaking the contact.
“Stop,” I gasp, the words muffled against his cheek. “I’ll fucking kill you.”
He catches my jaw in another firm grip, turning my face back to his. His eyes lock onto mine. “You don’t tell me what to do.” He ignores my muffled protest, kissing me until I’m breathless. His hand explores, and I let it happen. I let it fucking happen.
Another person taking from me.
My heart slams against my ribs, but my body lies still beneath him.
Fragments splinter into disjointed flashes.
The scent of his cologne, and my own voice, trying to form protest that dissolves into breath.
At some point, I realize I’m crying. The tears slip sideways into my hair, disappearing into the pillow without sound.
I reach as far inside myself as I possibly can, clawing and ripping for that demon inside me to take control.
Please. Please. You’ve numbed me so much…please numb me for this.
But the bastard doesn’t do anything, for the drugs have pulled him under, too. Henrik’s hand wraps around my throat, choking. It’s okay, because I can’t breathe anyway. I’m not someone who ever believed in a god…but if there is one, please do something. A heart attack, stroke, aneurism, something.
If there is a fucking god, help me.
The television laughter filters faintly through the wall again, fucking absurd and twisted against the brutal reality of this room.
I focus on that sound. On anything outside my body.
The only mercy is that I remain laying on my back the entire time.
He doesn't bother moving me much. My mind screams, but my limbs do nothing.
The last clear thought that enters my mind is—