Page 24 of Trapped

But he’d gotten too comfortable. Forgetting to use condoms. Jokes about marriage. Sweet kisses in the shower. This couldn’t continue. Our worlds didn’t mix. They couldn’t.

The knot in my stomach tightened. I had to draw a line and reclaim the control slipping away. The more I let him in, the more I risked losing myself. I couldn’t let that happen.

Not again.

I needed space from a room that smelled like him. I combed and blow-dried my hair. Pulling on my heels, I seized the envelope he’d left on the console table. The hallway blurred as I headed outside. I locked my brownstone’s door and descended the steps.

Sunshine bathed the streets in gold, highlighting the heat rising from the pavement. People rushed the sidewalk with their coffees, heads down, the world narrowing to the glow of their screens. A stroll to the Boston Common would do me good.

I took a deep breath, steadying my nerves.

A strong hand clamped down on my shoulder, the grip so tight it sent a jolt of fear through me. I spun around, my pulsequickening, and stared into the hollow eyes of a sallow-faced man in a worn jean jacket. One of Dimitri’s men.

He found me.

NINE

DELILAH

Ice stabbed into my stomach.

Ivan was an alley cat, rough and lithe. Dark scars marked his weathered face, trophies from a life spent in back alleys and bar fights. Since I’d known him, he’d been a rotten bastard. I couldn’t count how many times he’d watched Dimitri slap me around. If he was here, my ex wasn’t far behind.

He could be watching me now.

Ivan’s grip tightened, smirking. “Delilah, fancy meeting you here. You look tired. Santino ride you too hard?”

I flashed him a wintry smile. “What brings you out of the gutter today?”

He gestured to a car at the curb. “Let’s talk in private.”

“Let’s not.”

Sneering, he wheeled me toward the Mercedes. “Your fiancé is still looking for you. And unless you keep me happy, he’ll find out where you’ve been hiding. So be a good little whore and come quietly.”

Whore.

The word was a spark in the oil well of my self-loathing.

“Go fuck yourself, Ivan.”

Ivan’s hand shot out, and a blinding pain struck my cheek. I stumbled and fell. People around me either pretended not to notice or were too cowardly to intervene.Story of my life.

I picked myself off the street. Tiny rocks had embedded themselves in my palm. I brushed them off, wincing. Ivan grabbed me by the hair, leading me through a packed intersection and nudging me toward the parked car. A man got out and opened the door.

Shit.

I kicked and slapped, screaming, but he forced my head down. Then he shoved me, and I tumbled into the car. I launched myself to the passenger-side door and yanked on the handle—locked. I lunged at the driver, but the man in front pulled out a gun.

“Sit.”

I threw myself back, breathing hard.

Fuck. This was fine. I’d dealt with worse.

Ivan slid into the seat next to me, slamming the door shut. He laughed, shaking his head, a chilling sound. “You’re a tough bitch, I’ll give you that.”

The car moved.

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