Page 33 of Scarlet Secrets

He remains. “I said get out. We’re going inside. Now.”

With a tone that brooks no argument, a tone that lays down every law, a tone that would shoot to kill if it could. Reality slaps me hard, and I’m diminished. I shrink down somehow and I scramble out.

Something tells me no one crosses this Demyan and lives to tell anyone about it.

This man is a brute.

My son’s father.

One I’m determined won’t ever be allowed near him. Sasha is a sweet, kind, loving toddler and, if this man got his hands on him, would shape him in his own image and that’s monstrous.

I clip along across the gravel, clutching his jacket, hatingthat it’s against me and yet grateful for the warmth because each step I take sends ice shooting through me.

And Max… poor Max… A lump forms and the hot tears, the only thing hot in me, press at my eyes. Max might have fallen for the lovely and sweet Alina, but he never deserved to be caught up in this dangerous world that Demyan clearly inhabits.

Alina might have been born into it, but she had an innocence that I suspect meant Demyan sheltered her from the hellish world he lives in.

A thought strikes me. I’m sure Demyan’s going to get revenge on whoever took his sister and whoever killed Max. Not because he liked Max, but because Max made his sister happy.

Demyan doesn’t look at me as lights come on as he walks, striding fast through the door at the other end of the foyer, one that’s like a barrier. The inside of the mansion is beautiful, what I can take in, with polished woods, antiques, and art déco that shouldn’t work but does.

There’s a door down the hall on the ground floor that’s open, light spilling out and inside voices spitting Russian at each other.

Bratva? A corrupt oligarch? Or just plain organized crime without a label and a rich man who does what he wants whenever and doesn’t have to bother hiding any bodies.

They’re all the same, those people, whether American, Russian, Italian, or Irish.

He hits the stairs and doesn’t look back, so I don’t get to see in the room. I follow. We go up to the first landing, then the next, where it’s quiet, the furniture is more modern, but we’re in a wide hall with art on the walls, one of which I think might be an actual Picasso.

Suddenly Demyan stops and punches in a code, opening a door. I almost barrel into him but stop just in time.

He just gives me a cold look and pushes me inside.

Fuck this. I turn and start forcing my way out, but he blocks the way. He takes the coat and pulls out a knife and a wallet, then hands it back.

“I’m not staying in here. I’ve done nothing. I’m not your prisoner, Demyan, whoever you are. Let me go.”

“Or what?”

“Trying to tell me no one will hear me scream?”

A cold little smile hits his mouth. “No. They’ll hear. But no one here will do anything about it. You’re staying in here for your own protection. I have things to do, but when I return, I’ll let you out. Be a good girl.”

He slams the door in my face.

I drop the jacket and throw myself at the door, but the bastard locked it. I thump the door. “Let me out! I demand you let me out.” Oh God. “You can’t just leave me here!”

But after a while I stop. There isn’t a sound from the other side, so I’m assuming he’s gone.

I’m on the third floor, but surely I can get out. Climb down a drainpipe, or maybe there’s a balcony with an interconnecting door.

I spend the next five minutes checking everything. Tapping the walls, checking the closet for a hidden door or Narnia. But there’s nothing. The en suite is self-contained and there isn’t a window, just lights that mimic daylight or a more romantic mood. With disgust, I switch them off.

The lamp’s too light to use as a weapon, and there isn’t even a handy statue or clock to use as a weapon either.

I look at the curtained windows. Climbing isn’t my strong suit, but there are gardens at the side of the house, just expanses of lawn leading up to hamper someone’s approach.

Fine. I’ll climb out, drop or fall on handy bushes, and steal a car. Somehow.

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