Just a Bit Ruthless (Straight Guys 6)

As a teenager, Luke thought he had his life all figured out. He was going to fall in love with a nice, insanely attractive guy by the age of twenty who would adore him back, he would be in a steady, committed relationship with him for a few years before marrying him, they’d get lots of kids, and he’d live his happily ever after. Thinking about it made him smile now. He was already twenty-three, the man of his dreams had failed to materialize, and now he might not live to see the next day.

Yeah, life was funny that way.

It seemed that at some point he dozed off, because the next thing Luke knew, he was startled awake when two pairs of hands dragged him out of the car. The muzzle of a gun pressed into his lower back. “Walk,” someone barked out.

Dazed and disoriented from sleep, Luke did as he was told, blinking at his surroundings. They seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. It was still dark, but he could make out the looming woods a few hundred feet away. The woods surrounded the house he was being half-dragged, half-pushed toward. The snow was very deep, almost up to his knees, heavy and wet, and Luke struggled to move his feet.

“Faster, blyad,” said the same thug, pushing him.

Luke held back the sharp retort on the tip of his tongue and tried to walk faster. Resisting was useless at this point. Angering his captors was just plain silly. There were eight of them, and all of them seemed armed. He had to cooperate—for the time being.

At last, they reached the house and he was roughly shoved inside. Luke fell to his hands and knees, gasping. The thugs laughed, exchanging some jokes at his expense.

Ignoring them stoically, Luke got to his feet and looked around. The hall wasn’t at all what he had expected. It was tastefully and elegantly decorated, practically screaming of money.

The sound of the door opening caught Luke’s attention. A tall, beefy man with Slavic features and cropped blond hair walked out of the room. The thugs immediately stood at attention, dropping their leers and sneers. The blond exchanged a few words with one of the thugs, too fast for Luke to understand them. The thug addressed the blond as Vlad.

At last, Vlad turned his gaze to Luke.

Luke met his eyes, refusing to show fear. One of the few lessons his father had drilled into him was that one should never show fear in the face of adversity.

“What do you want?” Luke said calmly. “Why did you kidnap me?”

Vlad looked him over. “I don’t have to explain anything to you, English,” he said, his accent very heavy. His eyes lingered on Luke’s mouth for a touch too long before he glanced at the thug he’d been talking to and gave him a short order in Russian.

If Luke understood correctly, he was to be locked upstairs in the gray room and was to be fed once a day until further orders.

Luke’s stomach dropped at hearing that. He had hoped he would get at least an explanation.

“Please, could you tell me anything?” Luke tried again. “Why am I here? Do you want money?

Vlad’s eyes flicked to his mouth again, making Luke’s blood run cold.

At last, the blond shook his head. “I have orders not to talk to you,” he said and looked back at his men. “Zaprite malchishku v seroi komnate.”

Two thugs grabbed Luke and half-shoved, half-dragged him upstairs. Luke didn’t fight them and he didn’t try to speak to Vlad again. The Russian wasn’t the one giving orders. He wasn’t the one behind Luke’s kidnapping. Vlad might appear powerful, but he was a mere pawn. He wasn’t the one Luke should be negotiating with.

If Richard Whitford had taught his only son anything, it was that in any unfavorable situation, there was always room for negotiations. Any situation could be turned to his advantage—or at least could be swayed a little in his favor. But one didn’t negotiate with pawns. One negotiated with the king.

Luke was looking forward to meeting him.

Chapter 3

A slice of stale bread. A small bottle of water. That was his daily ration.

By the end of the week, the last remnants of Luke’s optimism were extinguished by the hunger gnawing at his insides. He felt fatigued and weak, almost dizzy at times. In all his life he had never known true hunger, not until now. His stomach contracted in painful spasms and all he could think about was food. He needed glucose-rich food. Luke knew if he didn’t have low blood sugar, it probably would have been nowhere as bad, but it was a small comfort when hunger kept him awake at night, curling up on the narrow bed, the only piece of furniture in the room.