Page 79 of Shatter Me

Real fear grips my chest for the first time. This isn’t some society power play or boardroom battle. These men aren’t here to negotiate or make threats—they’re here to hurt me.

The reality of Dmitri’s world crashes over me like ice water. All those hints about his “business,” the guards, the warnings about Lebedev—they weren’t just dramatic flair. This is what he was trying to protect me from.

They drag me into the hallway, my muffled screams barely audible through the tape. My neighbor’s door stays firmly shut—either they’re not home or too scared to look.

“Your spirit is admirable,” the leader says as we reach the stairwell. “But spirits break easily when the bones start cracking. You’ll learn.”

Tears sting my eyes as we descend. Each step brings fresh terror as I realize just how unprepared I am for this level of violence. My clever words and societal manners are useless against men who deal in blood and pain.

I should have listened to Dmitri’s warnings. Should have taken the danger seriously instead of treating it like some game. I’m about to learn exactly what it means to be caught between warring criminal empires.

The van’s metal floor bites into my knees as they shove me inside. My silk blouse catches on rough edges and tears. The door slams shut with a hollow bang that echoes through my bones.

Darkness swallows me whole. The tape across my mouth makes breathing hard. Each inhale is a desperate fight for air. My bound wrists throb where the zip ties cut into my skin.

The engine roars to life. I slide across the floor as we take a sharp turn, my shoulder slamming into what feels like a metal toolbox. The impact sends shooting pain down my arm.

“Watch the corners,” one of them barks. “Don’t damage her too much yet.”

Yet.

The word makes my stomach turn.

We hit a pothole, forcing my already throbbing head against the van’s wall. Stars explode behind my eyes. I try to brace myself with my legs, but my heels keep slipping on the smooth metal floor.

The van weaves through what must be side streets because I can feel us taking frequent turns. They’re avoiding main roads, making it harder to track us. Smart. Professional.

My earlier bravado evaporates with each passing minute. These aren’t amateur thugs. They know exactly what they’re doing.

I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting back tears. The image of Dmitri’s face flashes through my mind, and how he looked at me this morning over coffee, soft and unguarded. Will I ever see him again? Will he find me before...

No. I can’t think about that. I have to stay clear-headed.

The van takes another turn, gentler this time. We’re moving faster now, probably heading onto a highway. The engine’s pitch changes as we accelerate.

My chest tightens. Each mile takes me further from safety, Dmitri, and any hope of rescue. The reality of my situation crashes over me like a wave.

The Russian mafia is kidnapping me. And there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.

31

DMITRI

The elevator doors slide open, and my heart stops. Blood pools around Marcus's body, his hand still clutching his weapon. Peter lies face-down by Tash's door, a clean shot through the back of his head.

I draw my gun, scanning the hallway. The door to Natasha's apartment hangs open, splintered around the lock.

"No." The word escapes before I can stop it. Ice spreads through my veins as I clear each room, finding signs of struggle—an overturned chair, broken glass on the kitchen floor, her phone shattered against the wall.

I grab my cell phone and dial my brother's number. He answers on the second dial tone. "Nikolai. They have her." My voice sounds foreign and detached. "Lebedev's men took Tash."

A zip tie discarded on the floor makes my hands shake with rage.

"I'm coming," Nikolai says. "Don't move. We'll track them."

But I can barely hear him over the roaring in my ears. Images flash through my mind of Tash bound, terrified, suffering because of me. Because I was arrogant enough to think I could protect her.

I grip the doorframe until my knuckles turn white, forcing myself to think clearly. Lebedev is sending a message. This isn't about her—it's revenge for us taking Katarina.

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