Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
VIKTORIA
T his was a trap. It had to be. No man had ever asked what I wanted.
The question was, how did I twist this in my favor?
First, I needed a better read on this man they called Artem.
He was handsome and well-dressed, but there was a sinister coldness to him. The way he stood there, silently assessing. His eyes tracked every minuscule movement I made, cataloging weaknesses. Like a fucking snake ready to strike.
This man was not my savior. I’d be just trading one terror for another.
He sighed as he released my wrists and rose.
Despite taking a slight step back, he stayed close, towering over me, the fabric of his suit pants brushing my knees. The heat from his body radiated against my skin, a stark contrast to the bone-deep chill of the cabin.
"Returning you to your father’s… care …is not an option. So I ask again, what do you want?"
I rubbed my wrists, wincing at the raw, rope-burned flesh. I had to resist the urge to run my open palms over my thighs to erase the lingering warmth of his touch.
Clearing my throat, I whispered, "My freedom."
He raised an eyebrow. "Freedom from what?"
I looked up at him, my stomach tight with nerves as I stared into the most unusual yet alluring eyes I'd ever seen. They were a dark gray with only slight hints of blue. They reminded me of a terrible storm, where the clouds rolled in, low and threatening over water.
He was going to make me say it...out loud. My gaze flicked over to my father, who had been manhandled into a chair, and younger brother. It didn't even occur to me to plead for their safety. Fuck them.
"My family…and everything that comes with them."
The corners of his mouth lifted in just the suggestion of a smile. It never reached his eyes. If anything, he became more terrifying. "That’s not an answer. What specifically do you want to escape?"
Nothing about my situation was secure. It didn't serve to go mouthing off about what violent bastards my father and brother were if two minutes from now they were free.
Still, I didn't feel as though I had a choice. Somehow, lying to this man—this predator—didn't seem like an option. "The violence. They are...not good men…especially when they’re angry."
My father and brother both erupted into a vicious string of curses which were quickly silenced by this man's icy glare. The room temperature seemed to drop ten degrees with that single look.
He kept his focus on them as he spoke to me. "Do they often take their anger out on you?"
The air in my lungs seized as my throat constricted. My pulse hammered like a caged animal desperate for escape.
This conversation had already gone way too far.
Lowering my head, I focused on my filthy socks and didn’t respond.
"I'll take that as a yes." His hand cupped my chin as he forced my face up to meet his hard gaze. His fingers were surprisingly gentle against my bruised skin, but there was nothing gentle in his eyes. "Do you know what your father does for a living?"
I swallowed. "Please don't make me answer that."
He focused on my eyes before his gaze slipped to my mouth.
Without thinking, the tip of my tongue slid between my lips, wetting them.
He tracked the movement, then raised an eyebrow before leaning in closer, his breath brushing my cheek. The scent of expensive cologne and something inherently masculine, wrapped around me. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist."
My eyes filled with tears. They burned hot and unwelcome, blurring the edges of his face. This was a nightmare. "He's a criminal."
He nodded for a second, like he was considering my words. "And do you know who I am?"
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
This kind of thing never went well for the witness. My only hope was to frame this so I appeared useful and maybe he would show me mercy.
I answered honestly. "Only that my father thinks he can use you. A man named Solovyov sent him to make a deal. He says it was the perfect time to take advantage of your family."
"Traitorous bitch!" my father yelled as he lunged at me. Spittle flew from his mouth, his face contorted into a mask of hate I'd seen a thousand times before. The man in the black-on-black suit who'd been standing behind his chair pistol-whipped the back of his head, knocking him to his knees.
“My name is Artem Ivanov. You may call me Artem."
"Viktoria," I said, extending the same courtesy to him.
He offered me his hand, a gesture he refused my father.
Wincing from a sharp pain in my ribs as I stood, I clasped his hand.
His was firm and strong, but he didn't squeeze my fingers like so many men usually did.
At my show of pain, his face darkened.
Something lethal flickered in his eyes, there and gone in an instant. Without a word, he shrugged out of his suit jacket and held it for me to slip my arms into, which would not be possible with my injured shoulder.
I shook my head. "That's okay. I don’t need it.”
My heart sped up when he circled around behind me. The fine hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, my body instinctively bracing for pain. I resisted the urge to shift away.
He whispered close to my ear. "Again, I must insist."
I cleared my throat as I wrapped my right hand around my left arm. "I can't move my arm. I think my shoulder is dislocated."
As the spike of adrenaline from being kidnapped started to wane, the pulsing pain had set in. Every heartbeat sent fresh waves of agony through my joint, the pain so intense my vision swam with black spots. I struggled to stay alert to what was happening around me when all I wanted to do was pass out.
Artem cursed, soft and low.
He stormed across the room and said something in rapid Russian. His voice was controlled but razor-sharp, slicing through the cabin's musty air.
I couldn't quite catch what he said. My mother was the only one who tried to teach me Russian, but she died when I was barely eight. My older brother, Dima, tried to take over, but my father forbade it. Apparently, he figured it would be easier to talk about all the illegal shit they were doing if I didn't understand the language.
At the thought of Dima, my stomach clenched. The familiar hollow ache of grief opened inside me. It had been several years since his death, and I missed him as if it were yesterday. He had been my protector against my father and younger brother.
Artem's men hauled my father and brother out of the room.
They continued to scream insults at me even as they were dragged out.
"You better keep your dumb whore mouth shut, sister, or else!"
"Remember what happened to your mother."
That final threat would have hurt, if it hadn't been used countless times in my twenty-two years.
Artem returned to stand before me. His expression had changed—harder now, more focused. More dangerous.
We were alone.
Alone in an abandoned cabin in the middle of nowhere.
Alone with a criminal mafia boss who now knew all my weaknesses.
I inhaled a shaking breath as I locked my thighs together to keep my knees from buckling. My legs trembled with the effort, muscles burning from the strain. "Are you going to kill me now?"
He ran his knuckles over my cheek. The callused skin scraped gently over my bruises, sending conflicting signals of comfort and danger through my body.
"No," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper that vibrated through my bones. "But you're about to wish I had."
Then he grabbed me.