Page 195 of Sinful Blaze

When we’re half an hour away from our destination, Ivan pops an earpiece into his ear and taps the button. He mutters something in Russian. I’m at the point where sobbing almost hurts my head, so I try to calm myself with deep, hiccupping breaths.

Then Ivan freezes and glances at me in the mirror.

Something idiotic flickers to life inside me. “Pasha? Is it him?”

He shakes his head and returns to whatever conversation he’s having. It’s serious, and he grips the steering wheel tighter.

They’re telling him to get rid of me. I just know it.

Maybe not right now, but soon. He’ll drive me to some secluded spot and tell me to kick rocks. The Chekhovs are done with me. They never want to see me again.

Why should they? I’m only worth the weight of my unborn child.

Oh, God. Please don’t let them take my baby from me…

The horrifying thought sends me into a longer, deeper spiral of sobs and tears.

I’m barely aware of the car pulling into a driveway and coming to a stop. Somewhere in the distance, a familiar voice shouts my name.

The passenger door is yanked open, and I’m wrapped up in Melanie’s arms.

“I’ve got you,” she whispers into my hair. She reaches up to wipe the tears from my face. “You’re home, Daph. You’re safe. We’ve got you.”

I hear Jameson talking with Ivan, but I have no idea what about. I don’t care. I’m too tired, too worn, too drained.

“My hotel is only three blocks away,” Ivan says to me before I’m escorted inside. “Call me if you need anything. Your family has my number, too.”

Both Jameson and Melanie agree. They seem suspicious, but they have the good manners to thank him for getting me here safe and sound.

I’m only visiting. This is only temporary.

But when Ivan drives away, my heart sinks with the fear that the last lifeline to my hopes and dreams—to Pasha—is officially severed.

73

PASHA

I tug against the chains for the hundredth time. “Is this really necessary?”

The officer who’s been staring at me blankly for a solid hour doesn’t respond.

Typical.

I’ve been here for what feels like forever, though time has little meaning here. There are no windows in this room. The only way I know how long it’s been is the Rolex on my wrist.

On the one hand, it’s only been three hours since they arrested me.

On the other hand, it’s been three fucking hours since they dragged me in here and chained me to the table.

Finally—finally—the door opens and someone who looks like he’s in charge comes swaggering in.

“Mr. Chekhov.” The man pulls out a chair and sits across the table from me. “I’m Special Agent Aaron Smithson. Apologies for the wait.” He frowns at the cuffs chafing my wrists. Then gestures at them with a glance to the officer still standing in the corner. “Seriously?”

The officer sighs, then lumbers over to uncuff me.

“I’m assuming, Mr. Chekhov, that you’re not going to lunge across the table and gauge my eyes out or anything like that.”

I feign indifference. “This suit’s too expensive to get blood on it.”

---