Page 11 of Crimson Curse
My breath catches in my throat. I don't answer, won't let him see my fear, but I can feel my pulse hammering against my throat. The way he asks the question tells me he knows exactly whereDaniil is, and that knowledge terrifies me more than anything that's happened so far.
Viktor tilts his head, savoring the silence like fine wine. His eyes never leave my face, cataloging every micro-expression, every tell that might give away my thoughts. “Halfway to Wisconsin. Racing to save you, believing every word I told him. He thinks you're in some decrepit cabin in the woods.” His smile sharpens, cruel satisfaction gleaming in his eyes like broken glass. “But it's a trap. Lucien is waiting. Daniil will drive straight into the lion's mouth. By the time the night is over, he will be nothing but a memory.”
His words detonate inside me, leaving only wreckage in their wake. My stomach lurches, and for a moment I think I might vomit right here on Viktor's pristine hardwood floors. The room spins around me, the beige walls and generic artwork blurring together as the full scope of his plan becomes clear.
Daniil is driving into a trap because of me. Because Viktor knows exactly how to manipulate him and use his feelings against him. The guilt engulfs me, threatening to drag me under. If something happens to him, if he dies because Viktor used me as bait, I'll never forgive myself.
But underneath the guilt burns a fierce protectiveness that surprises me with its intensity. The thought of Daniil hurt, of him walking into Lucien's ambush believing he's saving me, fills me with white-hot anger so pure it feels like swallowing fire. Viktor thinks he's broken me with this revelation, showing me how powerless I am. But he's made a mistake. He's shown me exactly how much Daniil means to me.
Something inside me cracks wide open, fury flooding every corner of my body. I don't think, I just move. I lunge at him,my hands clawing for his face. My nails rake across his cheek, leaving bright red streaks that well with blood. The satisfaction of it is immediate and fierce. He stumbles back a step, shock flashing in his eyes like he can't quite believe I've dared to touch him. Before he recovers, I swing my palm across his jaw, the crack of the slap echoing through the empty room.
“You bastard!” The words rip from my throat, raw and wild, saturated with all the terror and rage I've been holding back. “You think you can take him from me? You think you can control me? I will never belong to you!”
The slap leaves my palm stinging, but the pain is nothing compared to the anger burning in my chest. Viktor staggers, one hand flying to his cheek where my nails have left their mark. For the first time since I've known him, his composure falters completely. His smile vanishes, replaced by primal rage that transforms his face into something monstrous.
“Cyka! Blyat!” he hisses, blood dripping from his cheek where my nails tore him. The Russian curse words sound venomous in his mouth, all pretense of civility abandoned. “I should break you for that.”
He grabs my wrist and twists, sending pain shooting up my arm. His fingers are like iron bands, unyielding and merciless. With terrifying ease, he slams me back against the wall. My shoulder blades hit the drywall hard enough to knock the air from my lungs. His breath is hot against my face, his grip unyielding, his steel-blue eyes burning so hot that he looks like a demon.
“Do it!” I spit, my chest heaving as I struggle to catch my breath. The words come from some place inside me, some core of defiance that Viktor hasn't managed to touch. “Because no matter what you do, you'll never own me.”
His grip tightens on my wrist, bruising, until the delicate bones grind under the pressure. For a moment, I think he might actually snap it. The pain is sharp, but I meet his glare without blinking. If he's going to hurt me, I won't give him the satisfaction of fear. I won't break for him. Not now, not ever.
My pulse races, but something strange happens as I stare into his furious eyes. His gaze drops to my stomach, and his expression hardens. His nostrils flare as his breath slows, the rage cooling into a controlled and dangerous calm.
“No,” he murmurs. The fury is still there, but now it's banked like coal, waiting to flare again. “Not you. Not while you carry what belongs to me.”
The words drain the heat from my body. His casual possessiveness in his voice and the way he looks at my body like it's already his property sends a shudder down my spine. I think of the pregnancy test, of the tiny life growing inside me that doesn't even know what danger it's already in. Viktor's claim on my unborn child feels like a violation worse than anything he could do to my body.
He drags me down the hallway, ignoring my kicks and twists. His grip is unrelenting. My feet slide against the hardwood floors as I try to find purchase, slowing him down, but it's useless. He's too strong, and the narrow hallway gives me no room to maneuver.
We enter a bedroom stripped bare of comfort. A bed bolted to the floor dominates the small space, its metal frame plain and utilitarian. A dresser sits against one wall, its drawers slightly open to reveal empty spaces. Blinds are shut tight across the single window, blocking out any hint of the outside world. The air smells like a hospital room where hope goes to die.
He forces me onto the mattress, and I feel the springs creak under my weight. The bedding is rough and institutional, probably chosen more for durability than comfort. From the nightstand, he pulls a pair of handcuffs that gleam silver in the harsh overhead light. Cold metal snaps around my wrist, making my heart sink. The other end locks to the bed frame with a click.
I yank against it immediately, the bite of steel tearing at my skin. The cuff is too tight, designed to hold. Blood wells where the metal cuts into my wrist, but I keep pulling anyway. The pain feels good somehow, a reminder that I'm still fighting, still refusing to accept this.
“Coward,” I snarl, my voice shaking with rage. Viktor fancies himself some sort of warrior, an heir to a proud tradition. Calling him a coward strikes at the heart of his self-image.
He wipes the blood from his cheek with his thumb, examining it like he's amused by the smear of red. When he looks at me again, the rage is gone. Replaced with something worse, hunger.
He sits on the edge of the bed, close enough that his thigh brushes mine. The mattress dips under him, rolling me slightly toward him despite my effort to pull away. The scent of his cologne clings to my throat like smoke. On anyone else, it might be attractive. On Viktor, it smells like obsession.
He lifts a strand of my hair between his fingers, stroking it with a tenderness that makes my spine stiffen. The gentle touch is somehow more violating than violence would be. At least violence is honest. This false tenderness, this pretense at affection, feels like poison.
“You'll thank me one day,” he murmurs, his voice suddenly soft. “I'll protect you. I'll protect the child. Daniil is reckless. Obsessedwith power. But me? I'll give you safety. I'll give you a future. You'll be at my side, Naomi. The wife I deserve. The mother of my heir.”
His thumb traces the line of my cheek with butterfly softness, and I jerk my face away. Nausea rises in my throat, and I want to scream. In his mind, I'm already his. The wedding, the life together, the children he'll force me to bear. It's all already decided. I'm just a late arrival to my own life.
“I don't want your protection,” I spit, putting every ounce of venom I can muster into the words. “And I don't want you. Daniil will find me, and he’ll make you pay.”
His smile returns, patient, and infuriatingly calm. The expression of a man who has all the time in the world to wear down my resistance. “Daniil is dead, Naomi. You’ll see. You’ll want my affection, in time.”
The certainty in his voice is the most terrifying thing yet. He's not hoping I'll come around or trying to convince me with pretty words. He knows, as if denial has never once been part of his world.
“You're insane,” I whisper, my voice raw with exhaustion and fear.
He laughs softly, leaning close enough that his breath ghosts across my ear. “Insanity is just the word people use when they don't understand greatness. Daniil was never meant to carry this family. He was too weak. But I was born for it. And soon, you'll see that too.”
