The Bratva's Captive (Wicked Doms 3)

The metal pushes against my temple. "You lie. And when I get you home, you'll find that it's much easier to tell me everything than to hide what you know." He leans in, his voice making my skin crawl. "Just like your mother did."

When vivid awareness washes over me, I close my eyes.

Just like your mother did?

"What do you want to know?"

My voice shakes. What can I even tell him?

"The name of the man who stayed with you?"

I swallow. "I—I don't know his name."

He slaps my face so hard it takes me by surprise, but even as pain blossoms on my cheek, I'm grateful he didn't pull the trigger. Not yet. I can still get away. And if he took me as a spy and ceased fire on Maksym's crew... he will only go back. He wanted to know what he could get from me first.

"The name of the man who took you," he grits out. I let the pain fuel me. I ride the ache and meet his eyes. I know who the traitor was.

"Filip."

He raises his hand to strike me again, but I don't flinch this time like he wants me to.

"You lie," he says. The car we're in is going so fast, my stomach clenches. We're going back to his place, and when we get there, he's going to hurt me. How can I get away?

I've made one poor choice after another.

Running to Larissa and telling her I had to escape. Playing up the way Maksym treated me, to garner her sympathy. I've put her at risk now, and I hate that I have.

Believing I was special to my father. That his protection of me and bringing me to Russia was because of some kind of paternal duty or affection, rather than to suit his own needs.

Falling in love with the man who took me.

But how was I to know? How could I possibly know he was the man I've dreamt about, the one who looked to me for comfort and consolation?

Our shared bond is the vicious, evil man in front of me now.

My stomach aches with nausea.

That should have been warning enough for me.

"I'll get the truth from you, Olena," he says. "I know for a fact it was not Filip who took you."

"Do you?" I ask, trying to bluff my way through this. "You think you know everyone who is on your side, don’t you?”

I don’t know who is on whose side anymore, but the longer I put off the inevitable, the more of a chance I stand to get away.

A part of me longs for Maksym to come.

But I need to take care of myself. I can't wait for a man to do what I can do myself.

My mind races with possibilities as we careen through the streets and my father holds the gun to my head.

"I'll have the truth from you, Olena. I will tear it from you."

I try another tactic, this one born of an inner truth I can't deny.

"I thought I meant something to you," I say, my voice tremulous.

He spits his words out. "I thought you were loyal to me."

I swallow hard. This is nothing but a distraction to him, which for now might be in my best interest.

"So you took me from America. Protected me. Not because I'm your daughter and should mean something to you, but because you thought I would blindly follow you? What was your end game here?"

"Shut up," he says, moving so quickly I can't escape his vicious hand around my throat. He's squeezing, and though I slap at his hands, I can't make him stop. My head feels too light, the air in my lungs constricted so badly my vision is going blurry. "You stupid bitch," he mutters. "All of you are expendable. All of you. Your mother. My men. You."

Somewhere deep in my subconscious I remember a self-defense move, and as the car takes a turn, he loses his balance. I lift my arms and swivel my torso, my elbow catching his arm and knocking him off me. But he didn't rise to the power of pakhan by accident. He is a brutal, trained fighter like the rest of them. I duck to the floor to avoid him, elbow him in the ribs, and when he gasps for breath, try to yank the gun out of his hand.

But he's too strong for me. I tear at the gun with helpless rage, but he quickly overpowers me.

The car cruises to a stop, and he holds me down, his hand on my neck and one at my wrists.

I will pay for this.

My stomach drops.

No one's coming for me, and I'm going to pay.

When we arrive, the door opens, and he drags me out. The faces of the men who stand outside the vehicle ready to obey his commands register surprise. They've never seen him lift a finger to me, and now it's obvious I'm no better than any of the enemies he's taken here to punish. Cars arrive and men get out of the vehicles, men dressed in black. My father's lackeys. Dozens and dozens of them.