Page 38 of Till Death Saves Me

I arch an eyebrow. "Do you? You clearly don't know Ivan very well."

As I keep them engaged, I feel Anya's movements beside me. My heart pounds, but I keep my voice steady, goading them just enough to keep their focus on me.

"I can't get out of these fucking ties," she mutters, growing agitated. I've never heard that edge to Anya's voice before, and for some reason, it sends a sense of urgency through me.

"Shut the hell up," one of the guys says when I try to talk to them again.

"Anya?" I whisper as he starts toward us. "Update?"

"I'm trying," she grits out, but it doesn't sound promising.

The first blow catches me off guard, snapping my head to the side. Pain explodes across my cheek, but I grit my teeth, refusing to cry out. I taste blood in my mouth.

"Not so tough now, are you?" One of them sneers, grabbing my chin roughly.

I spit blood in his face. "Fuck you."

His fist connects with my stomach, driving the air from my lungs. I double over as far as the restraints allow, gasping.

"Leave her alone!" Anya shouts.

The sound of flesh hitting flesh, followed by Anya's pained grunt, makes me struggle against my bonds. "Don't touch her!"

Another hit, this time to my ribs. I bite back a whimper, trying to channel Ivan's icy control. Don't show weakness. Don't give them the satisfaction.

"We've got a bit of time," one of them says, checking his watch. "We could soften them up a bit."

Hours crawl by, punctuated by sporadic bursts of violence. They're careful not to do too much damage - they clearly want us alive for something. Or someone.

As the adrenaline fades, fear creeps in. Where's Ivan? Why hasn't he found us yet? The thought of never seeing him again makes my chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with my injuries.

I close my eyes, picturing his face. The sharp line of his jaw, the intensity in his gaze. The rare softness in his eyes when he looks at me. I never thought I'd miss his gruff voice, his commanding presence. But now, I'd give anything to hear him bark orders, to feel the safety of his arms around me.

"Ginny?" Anya's whisper breaks through my thoughts. "You okay?"

I nod slightly, wincing at the movement. "You?"

"Been better," she mutters. "Any bright ideas?"

I scan the room, searching for anything we could use. But our captors are too experienced, too careful. There's nothing within reach, no loose bindings to exploit.

"Just... hang on," I whisper back. "Ivan will come."

The words surprise me as they leave my mouth. When did I start having such faith in him? When did he become my beacon of hope?

As another hour ticks by, doubt gnaws at me. What if he doesn't come? What if this is it? The thought of dying here, never telling Ivan how I feel, makes my chest tight with panic.

I'm not disillusioned enough to hope this is a ransom. My husband is Bratva. They don't exactly hold prisoners. And I've heard Ivan has quite the ruthless reputation.

God, what I wouldn't give to see that in action right now.

The sound of approaching footsteps snaps me back to reality. This is it. Whoever they've been waiting for is here.

I steel myself, channeling every ounce of strength I can muster. Whatever happens next, I won't go down without a fight.

But the footsteps outside quickly turn into the sound of a scuffle. Our captors tense, hands reaching for weapons. Hope surges through me - could it be Ivan?

"…fucking. Told. You." More grunt follows the shouts that filter into the room, and the accent is not my husband's. I'm not even sure it's Russian. "…always fuck it up!"

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