Page 10 of The Russian's Revenge Bride
I didn’t answer. Not yet. Fear was like wine—it needed time to breathe before it reached its full potential.
I climbed the stairs slowly, deliberately, letting each footstep announce my approach. By the time I reached her floor, Eleanor was pressed against the locked door, trapped exactly where I wanted her. Her phone was useless, no signal penetrating the concrete tomb she’d walked into.
She was even prettier in person than in her photographs, though terror had drained the color from her face. The camera hadn’t captured the gold flecks in her hazel eyes or the way fear made her freckles stand out against pale skin. She was wearing the same jeans and tank top from the surveillance photos, clothes that made her look younger than her twenty-one years.
Perfect.
“Please,” she whispered, backing as far away from me as the small landing would allow. “I don’t have much money, but you can have whatever—”
I pulled out the chloroform-soaked rag I’d prepared earlier. “This isn’t about money.”
Fear flashed in her eyes. Good. She was smart enough to understand that this wasn’t random, which would make the psychological impact so much stronger.
She tried to run past me, but there was nowhere to go. The stairwell was a concrete cage, and I was blocking the only exit. I caught her easily, one arm wrapping around her waist while the other brought the rag toward her face.
She fought like hell. I had to give her credit for that. Elbows to my ribs, heels stomping toward my feet, fingernails trying to find purchase on any exposed skin. But she was untrained and panicked, her movements wild and ineffective.
The chloroform took effect within seconds. Her struggles weakened, then stopped entirely as her body went limp in my arms. She was lighter than I’d expected, all fragile bones and soft curves that spoke of a life lived in safety and comfort.
That was about to change.
“Package secured,” I reported through my earpiece.
“Clean?”
“Silent as a grave. Prepare for extraction.”
I lifted Eleanor’s unconscious form and carried her down the stairs, moving quickly now that stealth was no longer necessary. The parking garage was empty except for a few expensive cars that belonged to people who worked late and thought they were important.
Lev was waiting with the van, engine running and rear doors open. We loaded Eleanor into the back, securing her with zip ties and a blindfold for when she woke up. The whole operation had taken less than ten minutes from start to finish.
Professional work.
As we drove through the rain-soaked streets toward the safe house, I looked back at our unconscious passenger and smiled. William Beaumont was about to learn that actions had consequences, and some debts could only be paid in blood and tears.
Prague was finally going to get its justice.
Chapter 3 – Eleanor
Consciousness returned like a slap to the face, dragging me up from the black depths of chemically induced sleep. My head felt like someone had filled it with cotton and broken glass, throbbing with each heartbeat. The taste in my mouth was metallic and wrong, like I’d been sucking on pennies.
I kept my eyes closed at first, trying to piece together what had happened. The stairwell. The footsteps. The deep, gravelly voice. The hand over my face and that sharp, sweet smell that had pulled me under.
Fuck.
I was in deep shit.
When I finally opened my eyes, the first thing I noticed was how elegant everything looked. The room was decorated like something out of a high-end hotel, all cream-colored walls and expensive furniture. A plush armchair sat in one corner, upholstered in what looked like genuine leather. The bed I was lying on had sheets that probably cost more than my monthly rent, soft as silk against my skin.
But there were no windows. No natural light anywhere. The illumination came from recessed fixtures in the ceiling, casting everything in a warm but artificial glow. No clock on the nightstand, no way to tell what time it was or how long I’d been unconscious.
I was underground. Had to be. The air felt different, recycled and still in a way that spoke of being cut off from the outside world.
My heart started racing as the reality of my situation sank in. Kidnapped. I’d been fucking kidnapped, just like something out of a movie. Except this wasn’t entertainment, and there was no guarantee of a happy ending.
I sat up slowly, fighting off a wave of dizziness that made the elegant room spin around me. My clothes were still intact, jeans and tank top exactly as I’d been wearing them in the studio. That was something, at least. Whatever my captor wanted, it apparently didn’t involve immediate sexual assault.
Small fucking comfort.
