Page 89 of Masked Seduction
Right.Rule one, Jenna: Don’t poke the psycho.
Too late.
His hand flashes out before I can react.CRACK. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a response but damn, my head rings.
He grabs my chin, fingers digging hard enough to bruise. “You’ve got twelve hours, sweetheart. If your Bratva prince doesn’t hand over every asset, I start trimming pieces. Starting with that sharp tongue of yours.”
I glare at him, blood coating my teeth. My gut tells me to keep quiet.
“Bedroom one,” he snaps, shoving me toward two of his grunts.
I force my brain to stay focused. Ten guards plus Nico. Two pistols, one shotgun, one knife on a belt. Exits: front door, kitchen, broken window by the staircase though too high to reach cuffed.
The hall reeks of stale beer and cheap body spray. One of the guards—big, young, and nervous—leans in close, voice barely above a whisper. “No one touches you unless the boss says.”
I angle my head as I walk quickly to keep up with the large men. “He planning to stay?”
“Not supposed to,” he mutters.
I’m guessing bedroom one used to be cute. Rose wallpaper, wrought-iron bed, but now the wallpaper’s curling, ashtrays overflow, and there’s a crusty handprint on the headboard I donotwant to know about. They cut the zip ties around my wrists, cuffing my left wrist to the bed frame. My right arm stays free.
Nervous guard checks the cuff. Too tight. I hiss. He loosens it a notch, meeting my stare before backing out of the room.
The door slams, and I hear a heavy bolt being turned before quiet drops like a blanket. I yank—nothing. The frame’s welded to the floor. Screwheads rusted solid. I dig at one until my nail cracks.
“Dammit.”
I lay my palm over the flat of my belly.Hold tight, little one. Mom’s working on an exit plan.
Boots stomp down the hallway and fade. A bassline pulses, men laugh. I hear Nico bark an order. He sounds paranoid.
I breathe deep, cataloging every sound, timing the rhythm of patrols. Fear trembles in my spine, but fury burns hotter. Abram will come. I know it. And when he does I intend to be very much alive, and I intend to watch Nico learn exactly how bad his bad decision was.
The room smells awful. I take inventory because that’s what a girl does when she’s cuffed to a bed and trying not to lose her mind.
First, the furniture. One busted dresser with a drawer hanging by a single rail. A nightstand scarred with cigarette burns. Mirror over the dresser spider-cracked straight through the middle—handy, if I decide to turn a shard into a shiv.
There’s a tiny window nailed shut and painted over a hundred renovations ago. A splintered chair sits in the corner, one leg snapped half off. If I ever get free, that leg is mine.
I flex my left wrist—cuffed so tight my pulse throbs against the steel. I twist sideways, digging my toes into the floor, stretching my free arm as far as it’ll go. Fingertips brush the nearest bolt but I can’t get the leverage.
Okay. Next idea.
I don’t have my purse. Nico’s guys took it when they frisked me, making sure I didn’t have anything useful. But the mattress has springs. I wedge my free hand into the seam, yanking until one breaks loose. It’s thin and a little rusty, but the end is sharp. I tuck it under my thigh. If someone gets handsy, they’ll get a surprise.
Voices filter down the hallway. Nico barks, “I’ve got leverage. Vasiliev will crawl.”
Crawl? Please.
Another man’s voice, warning him that he’s crossing family lines, breaking code. Nico tells him to fuck off.
The door creaks open. I tense and move the spring to settle within my fist. It’s the guard from before, the one who loosened my restraint. He balances a tarnished tray of bottled water, two aspirin, and a sad-looking banana. He steps in and shuts the door. He places the tray on the nightstand without looking at me.
“Sorry,” he whispers, avoiding my eyes. Up close he looks barely twenty-five, freckles poking out beneath the stubble.
“You got a name?”
He hesitates. “Luka.”
