Page 17 of Wicked Embers

For the first time, the ground beneath me feels unstable, as though the foundation of my empire has begun to crack. And as the door clicks shut, one chilling truth settles over me: tonight, Mark Dalton didn’t lose. He won—and I’ve only just realized it.

Chapter 7

LEIGH

The Las Vegas Strip blurs around me as I approach the Golden Lights Hotel. My head down, hood up, my sneakers quietly hit the pavement as the city thrums around me in time to the pounding of my heart. Shit, I really screwed up this time. My mind races, thoughts tumbling over each other like a stack of poker chips.

The chaos I caused in Radomir Molchanov’s VIP poker room plays on a loop in my mind, tormenting me. I zip my sweater as the night chill starts seeping in and shove my hands into the well-worn pockets. I don’t want to get Sabrina involved in this shit, but my best friend is my last hope right now. Maybe she can go to my apartment and get my bus ticket.

I should have about two or three hundred dollars in tips left in my purse. I can change the date on my bus ticket to Los Angeles and leave on the last one out tonight. I’m sure Sabrina would lend me some clothes to take with me or get me a bag of mine if she can get into my apartment. I sure as shit can’t go back there—ever!

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!I can’t even process if tonight was real, but the memory keeps crashing back to haunt me. I can see my father buckle beneath Radomir’s proposal, and just like that, I become an item to bet with.

I blink back the hot prickle of tears, refusing to let them fall. Crying won’t fix this clusterfuck of a situation. No, I need to keep my head in the game. Figure a way out of this mess before it swallows me whole. The glittering facade of the Golden Lights Hotel looms larger with each step. An icy tendril of fear slithers down my spine. My sixth sense starts to tingle. I glance back to make sure I’m not being followed.

When I turn, I freeze. Two figures from the Diamond Hotel’s VIP room emerge from the shadows. The one I’ve yet to get his name steps directly into my path, and Fredrik, or Tweedle Dumb as I dubbed him, steps behind me, cutting off my escape route so I can’t turn tail and flee.

Jerking to a halt, my breath catches in my throat. Wearily, I assess their stares and designer suits. I note that the Dark Lord takes care of his men, dressing them in expensive attire. My eyes quickly scan my surroundings while my brain calculates the probability of me escaping.

“Hello, Miss Dalton,” the unnamed one greets me. “Mr. Molchanov would like you back at the hotel.”

My eyes dart between them, searching for an escape route. The street beside me stretches empty and dark, the gaudy lights of the Strip now menacing rather than inviting. I glance to the side of the brick shithouse in front of me—the shiny glass door of the Golden Light’s hotel seems to mock me. It’s only about twenty steps away across the street—I was so close to getting help.

“Is that so?” I feign nonchalance, though the tremor in my voice betrays me. “Well, you can tell the Dark Lord that I’m a bit busy at the moment. Perhaps we could reschedule this little rendezvous?”

I hear Fredrik sigh behind me, and I turn as he replies, “I’m afraid Mr. Molchanov insists you meet him tonight. It would be in your best interest not to resist.”

I see it in his eyes again—compassion. But he’s helped me once tonight, and I get the impression I’m all out of free help cards from him. My mind whirrs, desperately seeking a way out but coming up blank.

They have me cornered, and we all know it. My shoulders sag in resignation. A flicker of anger ignites in my gut, but I breathe it away—my temper has already gotten me into enough hot water for one night. Then it hits me. These dudes might be muscle, but no one is immune to pepper spray, which I have more than one tin of.

I imagine myself whipping out the pepper spray like an action hero, one tin in each hand—I spray their eyes full of burning fire, then vault over the nameless man running off into the night.

“What say, I pay you to look the other way.” I start to unzip my purse. “I have about...” Before I can even pull the zipper, Fredrik grips my wrist from behind.

“Please, printessa, Dolph has no qualms about knocking you out if you become uncooperative,” Fredrik warns me. “And I don’t fancy making love to my wife tonight half blind from that shit you carry around in there.”

I ignore the graphic reference to what Fredrik plans to do when he’s off duty and jump on the part where his kidnapping partner would actually knock me out.

“You’d hit a woman?” My head swivels to the man I now know is Dolph, my eyes widening in disbelief.

“No!” Dolph shakes his head, and I can swear I see a glint of admiration and humor in his eyes. “But I’m not averse to using chloroform.” He pulls a bottle and a rag from his suit pocket.

“You seriously carry that shit in your pocket?” I gape, incredulous. “You do know it’s an illegal substance, right?”

Dolph’s amused chuckle makes his muscular chest bob. “Nothing’s illegal for the Molchanov’s.”

“Of course not.” I roll my eyes. “I guess when murder, mayhem, drugs, guns, money laundering, and whatever else criminal activities the family is into, a little chloroform is nothing.”

“What’s it going to be, Miss Dalton?” Dolph asks, ensuring I see the bottle and rag in his hands.

“Fine,” I bite out through clenched teeth. “I don’t relish the fucking headache and cotton mouth that crap leaves a person with.” I take a step toward the vehicle. “Let’s go.”

They flank me, escorting me toward a sleek black car idling at the curb. My heart starts to thud against my rib cage. Panic surges through me, and my eyes dart around, but as I climb into the vehicle, my heart starts to sink.Fuck, Leigh, this is it. You’re being driven to your doom.

But as the car door slams shut, closing me in with the suffocating scent of leather and the ominous silence, I make one last ditch effort to escape through the other door. Only Dolph appears on the outside of it, shaking his head before climbing into the driver’s seat, and the fucking back door won’t open.

“The child locks are on,” Dolph tells me, glancing in the mirror.

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