Page 62 of Tattooed Heart

He stands, approaching the bars, until his face is a foot from mine. “I want Dimitri to see what he’s cost you,” he says, almost dreamily. “I want him to look into your eyes as your child is ripped from your body.”

My knees nearly buckle, but I hold firm. I can’t let him see my fear. I won’t. Hot rage floods through me, replacing the fear with a clarity I never experienced before. This man threatened not just me but my child. Dimitri's child. Our future.

“You think hurting me will break him?” I ask. “You don't know Dimitri. You don't know me.”

Morozov leans closer, his hands on the bars. “I know everything. I know the day you met. I know you're carrying a Popov heir, and that makes you valuable.”

“How long have you been planning this?” I probe, needing to keep him talking. Every minute he spends gloating is another minute for Dimitri to find me.

“Since the moment Dimitri took what was mine,” he sneers.

“He will come for me,” I say with a conviction I don’t feel. “And when he does, there won't be enough left of you to bury.”

Morozov's expression hardens. “Perhaps. Or perhaps he will receive your body in pieces, starting with his unborn child.”

He smiles, all teeth and hate. “Sleep well, little dove. We'll have plenty of time to get acquainted.”

He turns and leaves, locking the door behind him.

Only then do I let the tears fall. But only for a moment. Because if Dimitri doesn’t save me…I'll save myself.

My fingers move to the zip tie binding my wrists. They made them too tight, cutting into my skin, but that was their mistake. Tight means the plastic is stretched. And stretched plastic can break. I twist my wrists, ignoring the pain as the edges dig deeper, working my hands against each other.

The mattress in the corner of the cell snags my attention. Dirty and stained, but it has potential usefulness. I move toward it, scanning the frame for anything I can use as a weapon. The springs are exposed in one corner where the fabric had torn away. Perfect.

I sit on the edge, positioning my body to block the view from the door in case someone looks through the small window. My fingers work the springs, tugging until one breaks free. It isn’t much, but it is sharp. And sharp is all I need.

As I work the metal between my bound wrists, sawing at the plastic, I think of Dimitri. Of the night he told me about his childhood, about learning to survive in places much worse than this warehouse.“Never show fear,” he had whispered against my hair. “Fear is a luxury for people who have never had to fight for their lives.”

I’m not afraid anymore. I’m furious. Fury will keep me alive until Dimitri finds me. Or until I find my own way out.

The zip tie snaps with a satisfying pop. I rub my raw wrists, wincing at the sting of open wounds. Then, I turn my attention to the cell door. The lock is old and rusted, but it remains solid. No amount of makeshift tools will open it. But the hinges...those look promisingly worn.

I hear footsteps approaching outside. Quickly, I reposition myself on the mattress, hiding my free hands behind my back, the broken spring tucked into my palm. Whoever Morozov sent to check on me will be expecting a fractured, terrified woman. They will find something else entirely.

20

DIMITRI

I crash through the mansion's front doors, my heart in my throat. My men move with urgency as they patrol the halls with weapons drawn.

Abram meets me at the entrance to the kitchen, his expression fearful. “She's gone,” he says.

Every cell in my body goes cold, a numbness spreading from my core outward as the words momentarily steal my breath.

“What the hell do you mean gone?” I snarl, already moving past him before he can explain. The marble floors echo beneath my boots as I storm toward the staircase.

Talia appears in the hallway, breathless and pale. Her normally immaculate appearance is disheveled, her eyes wide with fear. “She was waiting for you. I checked on her not long ago. Then all hell broke loose outside—alarms, shouting—and when I went to get her, she was nowhere to be found. Elena said she took her to the panic room, but when I checked, Sandy wasn't there.”

Elena.

The name evokes a visceral response within me. Russo's words on the rooftop replay in my mind with perfect clarity.“Elena. Started a couple of months ago. She was supposed to ensure access through the east wing security system.”

I don’t wait. I turn and storm down the west corridor toward the servant quarters, my body moving with deadly purpose. Ivan follows closely, his hand resting on his holstered weapon. The household staff scatters before us, pressing themselves against the walls to avoid my path.

I find her near the back stairwell, alone, trying to sneak her way toward the garage. Her movements are furtive. She has a small bag clutched in her trembling hands. She jumps when she sees me, eyes wide, heart pounding so hard I can see it in her throat.

“Where is she?” I growl, advancing slowly.

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