Page 137 of My Dark Horse Prince

“Of course not,” the blond says.

But the russet-haired man looks a little uncomfortable.

Which should have been my red flag, if I were more careful. Because sometimes the boy who cries wolf. . .is right. Sometimes there are wolves lurking around the corner.

Of course, I don’t realize it until the tall one grabs me and the russet-haired one holds a white cloth over my face.

By then, my limbs are slack and the world’s already going black.

26

Waking up feels like swimming. . .through tar.

My eyes are burning.

The inside of my mouth and throat are as dry as cotton.

Every part of my body aches, but especially my leg.

The world around me is still utterly dark, but I realize that’s because my eyes are covered with. . .something.

Unfortunately, I break into a coughing fit, alerting the people around me that I’m finally awake. You always think you’ll be tough, when you see people in movies doing stupid things. Maybe I would have been tough, mentally, but my body’s always been weak.

This stupid, delicate meat sack.

“Ah, welcome back.” Someone yanks the blindfold away, and the blond one’s in front of me, his head only half a meter from mine. He’s speaking in English, and he doesn’t even have a British accent. Why didn’t I switch to English to confirm he was at least British? Ugh.

His outfit’s entirely different now. No more stuffy tweed suit.

It makes my heart sink when I notice. . .they’re in all black.

“Who are you?”

He looked good before, in the ridiculous costume he was wearing, but now? The blond one’s clearly broad shouldered, in great shape, and the beauty of his face cuts like a knife. Impossibly high cheekbones. Startlingly ice-blue eyes. Full lips. Golden skin. An arrogance that reminds me of Grigoriy.

Without the kindness.

He gestures around the room. “It’s been a while, and no one has noticed you’re gone. . .or if they have, they don’t know where to find you.”

I remember my stupid boast that if I was gone more than ten minutes, someone would be worried.

“He’ll find you,” I say. “And he has his powers back. You’ll wish you’d never been born.”

The tall blond stands. “Grigoriy, you mean? Hardly.”

The russet-haired one looks less. . .sadistic. He’s behind the blond, leaning against the wall of the small, dark room where I’m stuck on the floor. “Just hand her the phone.”

“The phone?” My hands are tied behind my back, which is probably why my right shoulder feels like it’s been ground against the floor for an hour. My feet are also bound, but my bad leg has, blessedly, gone numb. I struggle until I’m at least sitting up, bracing myself on my good side. “Who do you want me to call?”

“We had to dispose of your phone, just in case your friends are tech-savvy.” The blond one frowns. “Which is a real hassle. I hope you know Kristiana’s number.”

“Wait, Kris?” I blink, trying to make sense of what’s happening. “Why Kristiana? You aren’t really reporters, clearly.”

The russet-haired one makes a sound that I think might be a laugh. “No, we aren’t.” He switches to Russian. “I’m Mikhail Kurakin, and my stupidly pretty blond friend there is Boris Yuravsky.” He drops into a crouch, his green eyes hovering in front of mine. “We’re friends of your new boyfriend. He didn’t say?” His hair’s tufty now, no longer combed into neat lines. It falls all around his face like reddish straw, nearly obscuring his eyes.

How dare he claim to be friends with Grigoriy? I spit on him.

Which earns me a raised fist. To my shock, he pulls back. He grits his teeth, inhales slowly, stands up, and starts pacing.

---