Page 57 of Ruthless Daddies

I scan the room quickly, my eyes moving to every corner. Nothing. She’s not here.

That’s when I see it—the back door, swinging shut as if someone just passed through it.

My stomach tightens.

I move quickly, weaving through the tables. My hand slips under my jacket, my fingers wrapping around the grip of my gun. I draw it slowly, keeping it low, making sure no one notices. My pulse hammers in my ears as I push the door open, stepping into the dimly lit alley behind the café.

The smell of damp concrete and garbage fills the air, and I pause, listening.

Then I hear it—her scream.

It’s sharp, terrified, and it cuts through me like a knife. My heart lurches, and without thinking, I move toward the sound, my gun raised and ready.

I round the corner, and there she is.

A man has her pinned against the wall, one hand covering her mouth while the other clutches her arm. Her eyes are wide with fear, her struggles frantic but ineffective against his size.

Something snaps inside me.

Before he can react, I raise my gun, aiming for his head.

I don’t hesitate.

The gunshot echoes through the alley, and the man crumples to the ground in an instant. Before I can lower my weapon, Alice sways on her feet, her eyes wide and unfocused, and then she collapses into my arms, unconscious.

21

ALICE

Iwake with a jolt, my heart racing, the remnants of the nightmare clinging to me like cobwebs. Elena’s phone had been in my hands, the screen cracked and flickering. Messages scrolled across it on their own, over and over, the same words:You’ll never escape. Neither will they.The eerie glow had bled into darkness, and then…nothing.

I sit up, gasping for air, my body damp with sweat. My head throbs, and the room spins slightly as I blink, trying to focus. That’s when I see him.

Ivan.

He’s sitting in the chair by my bed, his elbows resting on his knees, his face shadowed in the dim light. His hands are wrapped around mine, his grip firm but careful, like he’s afraid I’ll slip away.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. His expression is unreadable, his gaze lingering on mine as if he’s searching for something.

Then, without a word, he stands and releases my hands. He doesn’t say anything as he crosses the room and disappears through the door, closing it softly behind him.

I stare at the door, my chest tight. My head pounds harder, and I press my fingers against my temples, trying to ease the pain. The room tilts, my vision blurring, and I sink back into the pillows as unconsciousness pulls me under again.

The next time I wake,the light in the room is brighter. My throat is dry, and my headache has dulled to a steady throb. I shift slightly, groaning at the effort, and then I notice someone leaning over me.

Dmitri.

“You’re awake,” he says, his voice low and even, though there’s an edge of something—concern, maybe—beneath it. He places a hand under my back, helping me sit up. “How do you feel?”

“Like I got hit by a truck,” I mutter, my voice hoarse.

He smirks, brushing a strand of hair away from my face. “You look better than last night.”

Last night. The words make my stomach churn, memories of the alley flashing in fragments—Nikolai, the gunshot, the man crumpling to the ground. I push them down, forcing my face to remain neutral.

“How much do you remember about last night?” Dmitri asks, his gaze sharp, like he’s dissecting me with his eyes.

I hesitate, then shrug. “Not much. It’s all kind of a blur.”

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