King's Ransom (Ruthless Doms 3)

“Stay there,” Abram says. He opens a gate that swings from a chain link fence.

Yeah, I’m not going anywhere. I keep my head down as I suppose a good slave should. I don’t want to draw any attention to myself. But I catch the glimpse of silver, and when I look up, Stefan is standing only a few yards off. I wish it gave me the reassurance it once did.

There’s a scuffle and the sound of footsteps, then Abram’s standing before me. I blink in surprise when I recognize the girl from the slave ship in America, slave to her blond master. I open my mouth to say something, but Abram cuts me off. “Stay right here and do not make a sound,” he whispers. I watch in stunned silence as he takes the woman and brings her to Stefan. He reaches for her, and my heart squeezes when I see him pull her close to him.

Of course he does. He doesn’t love me. I don’t matter to him. He’s only taken care of me, like he will her, because it’s who he is, not because I’m anything to him.

No.

“Come,” Abram says, grabbing my hand and dragging me inside. I go blindly, my eyes are blurry with unshed tears.Chapter 17StefanAbram shoves the stolen woman into my arms before I can say a word. I look at him in surprise, and Taara stares at us just before Abram whisks her into the compound. She takes a piece of my heart with her. I can’t believe I agreed to this. I can’t fucking believe I did.

“Sir?” the woman in my arms looks at me questioningly, her voice soft but plaintive. I look down in surprise when I realize she’s the woman from the ship. The one that Taara snuck off with. I don’t know what to say, but she does.

“He said to come with you,” she whispers. “That you will protect me. If my master realizes I’ve gone…” her voice trails off and she bites her lip, then looks up at me curiously. “Did you come to rescue me?”

“Partly,” I tell her. “But we’re here to bring this operation down. “Now be quiet while I get you to safety.”

“Yes, sir,” she says meekly, and I hate it. I fucking hate it. She isn’t my girl and I am not her master. But I have no time to dwell on this. I take her to the car that waits. With quick, hurried movements, I shove her into the car and buckle her in. I dismiss the wide-eyed look she gives me.

“Stefan,” one of the men asks. “You’re supposed to be coming back with us.”

Like hell I am.

“Go,” I tell him. “Now.” I turn and leave.

In the comm device that I wear, I can hear Demyan cursing.

“For fuck’s sake, Stefan.”

“Shut up,” I growl. “Like you’d leave Larissa.”

“Fair,” he mutters. But then we both lapse into silence because we need to hear what Abram and Taara are up to. I want her the fuck out of there yesterday.

Earlier today, I got a call from Nicolai updating me on her mother’s condition. The prognosis isn’t good at all. I need to get her back to America. I never should’ve brought her here. She isn’t safe. This is so damn wrong. She should be at home, with her mother, not pretending to be a slave in this underground movement that threatens the safety of all.

Then Taara’s voice comes through the comm.

“Yes, sir. Certainly, sir.”

I slide my phone out of my pocket and pull up the feed, and when I do, I freeze.

Fuck.

She’s standing in front of Mikahl, and beside him stands the woman from America. The one who ordered my execution. They haven’t seen her, but if they do this could be lethal for Taara. What if they recognize her?

Never should’ve brought her here.

Once I get her alone again, I’m gonna lock her up and never let her out of my goddamn sight again.

I can hear two people speaking to one another, and when one says ‘Boston,’ I listen harder. “You are the only two that want to do this,” one man says. I don’t recognize him but wonder if Demyan will.

Want to do what?

“The rest of us believe having ties in America strengthens us. It’s a terrible idea to eradicate America.”

My heart momentarily soars. Does he speak for all, or just himself?

“I agree,” someone else says.

“Do you know what America stands for, though?” the woman asks. “They are the ones that diluted our brotherhood by allowing those with American blood to infiltrate their ranks.”

“But they maintain the demand for Russian blood,” one says. Several other concur.

“I’ve had it with this trade,” one says. “We’ve made our money and forged our power for decades without stooping to this level.”

Demyan’s voice comes into my ear. “That’s Makar. Head of the Zelenegrad Bratva. His interference at this juncture bodes well, brother. Very well.”