Page 84 of Shatter Me

The cut on my palm throbs, reminding me how I lost control. Blood for blood. That's how this game works. But Igor doesn't understand one crucial thing: Natasha isn't just a piece on his chessboard. She's become my weakness, yes, but also my strength.

34

TASH

I've lost track of time in this dark room. My wrists ache from the zip ties, and my throat feels raw from screaming earlier. The metal door creaks open, flooding the space with harsh fluorescent light that makes me squint.

A burly guard with a scarred face grabs my arm, yanking me to my feet. My legs shake, barely holding me up after being curled on the cold concrete for so long.

"Move," he barks in heavily accented English, shoving me forward.

The hallway stretches endlessly, painted an institutional gray that reminds me of a prison. My bare feet slap against the cold floor as I stumble along, the guard's iron grip bruising my upper arm. Each step sends jolts of pain through my body from where they roughed me up during the abduction.

My heart pounds against my ribs as we pass door after door. Where are they taking me? What new horror awaits? The questions swirl in my mind, making my breath come in short gasps.

We turn down another corridor lined with pipes along the ceiling. The industrial hum grows louder, and the air feels damper. We must be underground somewhere, but I've completely lost my sense of direction after being blindfolded during the drive.

The guard yanks me to a stop before a heavy steel door. My stomach churns as he reaches for the handle. I want to fight, to run, but my body won't respond. Fear has frozen me in place as surely as any restraints could.

The door swings open with an ominous groan. Beyond it lies more darkness, and my anxiety spikes higher.

The guard shoves me through the doorway, and I stumble into a stark room with concrete walls and harsh overhead lighting. My heart stops when I see him—Dmitri is standing in his perfectly tailored suit, looking as controlled as ever. But it's the woman beside him that makes my blood run cold.

Dark hair falling in waves past her shoulders, sharp green eyes holding defiance and resignation. She must be Katarina Lebedev. Igor's daughter. The one he claimed Dmitri and his brothers had taken hostage.

My stomach lurches as the pieces click into place. Igor wasn't lying. Dmitri did take his daughter first. All his talk of protection and keeping me safe from the Lebedev family was manipulation. He started this war by snatching Katarina.

I search Dmitri's face for any hint of remorse or explanation, but his expression remains impassive. Only the tightening around his eyes betrays any emotion at seeing me in this state.

"You..." My voice comes out as a hoarse whisper. "You took her. Everything Igor said was true."

Katarina's gaze flicks between Dmitri and me, a knowing look crossing her features. She stands close to him but not like a captive, more like an ally. What game are they playing?

"Did you enjoy manipulating me?" I demand, finding my voice despite my parched throat. "Was any of it real, or was I just another pawn in your war with Igor?"

As he steps toward me, the fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across Dmitri's angular features. I instinctively back away until I hit the wall, my bound hands scraping against the rough concrete.

"Kulkolka," he says softly, using that intimate nickname that now feels like another weapon in his arsenal. "Things aren't what they seem."

But I can't unhear Igor's words or unsee the evidence before me. The man I thought I knew, the one who held me so tenderly just days ago, is capable of kidnapping an innocent woman to wage his criminal war. And now I'm caught in the crossfire.

My stomach churns as I stare at Dmitri and Katarina. The tender moments we shared, his gentle touches, and his protective instincts feel tainted now. This is who he is: a man who kidnaps women to further his agenda.

A firm hand wraps around my throat from behind. Igor's laughter echoes through the room as Dmitri's face transforms into something dangerous. His eyes darken with murderous intent.

"Look how he reacts," Igor's breath hits my ear. "The great Dmitri Ivanov, undone by a museum curator."

But I barely register Igor's words. I can't tear my eyes away from Dmitri's hand resting firmly on Katarina's shoulder. The same hands that traced paths of pleasure across my skin have kept this woman captive.

Bile rises in my throat. What kind of monster have I let into my bed? Into my heart? The museum encounters, the passionate nights, the intimate breakfast moments.

I thought I knew him, that I saw glimpses of the real man beneath the controlled exterior. But this is who Dmitri truly is: a man who takes what he wants, who ruins lives in pursuit of power.

The worst part is that I still feel the pull toward him deep down. Even as revulsion courses through me, my traitorous body remembers his touch and craves his presence.

"You're just like him," I whisper, my voice rough. "Both of you treat people like chess pieces."

Dmitri's jaw clenches, but he doesn't deny it. Of course, he doesn't. The evidence stands beside him in Katarina's resigned posture, in the casual way he maintains his grip on her.

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