Page 82 of Shatter Me

Igor’s fingers drum against a metal table as he pulls up a chair, the screech against concrete making me wince.

“You think you know him, don’t you? Your precious Dmitri?” His lips curl into a sneer. “Let me tell you what kind of man you’re sleeping with. Did he mention he’s holding my daughter?”

My heart stutters. “What?”

“Katarina. My beautiful girl.” Something flickers across his face—pain, maybe even genuine grief. “They took her from her own home. And now Erik Ivanov has her, doing God knows what.”

I try to keep my expression neutral, but my mind races. Dmitri never mentioned a hostage.

“You’re lying.”

“Am I?” He pulls out his phone, showing me a photo of a striking young woman with bright blue eyes. “Ask yourself—how many other secrets is he keeping? What else don’t you know about the man warming your bed?”

The zip ties bite into my wrists as I shift uncomfortably. “Whatever’s between you and the Ivanovs?—”

“Is now between you and me.” His voice hardens. “They took my daughter, so I took his woman. Simple mathematics. An eye for an eye.”

“I’m not his?—”

“Save your protests.” Igor stands, looming over me. “You’re leverage. It’s not personal. Though I must admit, there’s a certain poetry to it. The great Dmitri Ivanov was brought low by a museum curator. And now he’ll have to choose—you or keeping my daughter captive.”

The worst part is that I can hear the truth in his words—the pain when he speaks of Katarina. It makes me question everything I thought I knew about this war and about Dmitri.

“He won’t trade,” I say, but uncertainty creeps into my voice.

Igor’s smile is razor-sharp. “Then perhaps you’re not as important to him as you thought. We’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?”

I slump against the cold wall, my mind racing with Igor’s words. Everything I thought I knew about Dmitri feels like quicksand beneath my feet. A hostage. He’s been holding a hostage this whole time and never told me.

My chest tightens as memories flash—all those times he stepped away for “urgent business,” the hushed conversations with his brothers, the way Erik would sometimes disappear for hours. Was he with her? Was she locked away somewhere while Dmitri and I shared intimate dinners and passionate nights?

The zip ties dig into my wrists as I shift position, trying to find comfort on the concrete floor. But there’s no comfort to be found in this reality. If Dmitri could hide something this massive, what else has he kept from me?

Every tender moment, every seemingly honest conversation, were they all calculated moves in some greater game? When he told me he was falling for me, was that just another lie to keep me close, keep me useful?

My throat burns with unshed tears, but I refuse to let them fall. Not here. Not where Igor’s men can see my weakness. But the questions keep coming, relentless as waves against rocks. Will Dmitri trade for me? Does he even care enough to try? Or am I just another piece on his chessboard, expendable when a better move presents itself?

The uncertainty gnaws at me worse than the fear. At least with fear, I know where I stand. But this feeling of not knowing what’s real and what’s manipulation? It’s like trying to stand on shifting sand.

A guard’s boots scrape against the concrete as he passes, and I press myself harder against the wall. My entire world has narrowed to this moment, this cold room, and the sickening possibility that everything with Dmitri has been an elaborate lie.

33

DMITRI

My phone vibrates against the desk, and I snatch it up before the first ring ends. Akim's voice confirms what I already knew was coming.

"They want to trade, sir. Lebedev's terms are simple Katarina for Natasha."

The crystal tumbler in my hand shatters. I barely register the sting of glass cutting into my palm as blood drips onto the mahogany desk.

"When and where?" My voice comes out lethal, quiet.

"Tomorrow night. Abandoned warehouse on South Street. They'll send coordinates an hour before."

I end the call and slam my fist against the desk. The pain grounds me and keeps the rage from consuming everything. Erik stands in my doorway, his face a mask of stone.

"You heard?"

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