Page 4 of Forbidden Vows

"Stating facts." He downshifts, the engine growling like the danger lacing his words. "You're not going home tonight."

Ice floods my veins. "Excuse me?"

The silence stretches, broken only by the hum of tires on asphalt. Streetlights strobe across his face, highlighting the stubborn set of his jaw.

When he finally speaks, it's so quiet I have to strain to hear: "You're cargo now, devochka. Precious, troublesome cargo."

Several minutes later, he pulls up to a gorgeous hotel somewhere on the Gold Coast.

"What are we doing here?" My voice sounds hollow, even to me.

The building looms before us - all gleaming glass and art deco flourishes. Rooftop lights twinkle like trapped stars above us, promising a world of crystal glasses and Lake Michigan breezes.

Snap out of it, Eileen. You're not a guest.

"What are we doing here?" I repeat, sharper this time.

"You'll be safe here." His voice is calm, but his fingers flex on the steering wheel. I notice how his signet ring catches the light - that damned two-headed eagle winking at me.

"Safe?" The laugh bursts from me, raw and jagged. "That's rich coming from my kidnapper."

He turns then, slowly, like a predator sizing up prey. The movement makes his suit jacket strain across shoulders that could probably bench press me. "If I wanted you dead," he murmurs, "you'd already be feeding the fishes at Navy Pier."

"I could scream," I blurt out.

The silence that follows is heavier than the Chicago humidity. My father's voice echoes in my head - That smart mouth will get you killed someday, Eileen.

His hazel eyes darken to forest green in the dim light. "Those men back at the club? They're Andrei's attack dogs. And you just became their favorite chew toy."

He gets out of the car, then comes around to open the passenger door for me. I get out, immediately smacked in the face by the cold night air. Shivering, I follow this mysterious man into the building, noticing that he doesn’t look around or seem fearful of anyone following us.

This is clearly his turf.

“Good evening,” he tells the night manager, who sits behind the reception desk, half asleep. He gets a slight nod and a mumbled reply as we walk over to the elevator. “Keep your eyes on me and your mouth shut.”

I can't help myself. "What, no blindfold? No handcuffs? I'm disappointed in your kidnapping technique.”

The look he gives me could freeze vodka. "Keep testing me, malyshka, and you'll learn why they call me Kholodnyy."

The Cold One. The nickname slithers down my spine.

He leads me inside the elevator and the doors shut.

The elevator doors part to reveal a hallway lined with blood-red wallpaper that reminds me too much of the Infinity Lounge. His suite smells of lemon polish and something darker beneath - gun oil, maybe, or the metallic tang of old blood.

"Not bad for a criminal," I mutter, taking in the marble floors and floor-to-ceiling windows.

His laugh is dark as he locks the door behind us. A devastatingly cute dimple appears in his cheek when he smiles, barely visible beneath his stubble.

My God, there’s not an unattractive inch on this man.

"Compliments will get you nowhere." He shrugs off his jacket, revealing a shoulder holster that makes my breath hitch. Try anything stupid..." He pats the gun meaningfully.

"Charming." My voice shakes despite myself. "Do you always kidnap women at gunpoint, or am I special?"

He's suddenly in my space, all heat and expensive cologne. "Special?" His breath ghosts over my lips. "You're a problem Ididn't need tonight, krasavitsa."

“Can you at least tell me your first name?”

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