Page 141 of Bound By Revenge

It didn’t haveto be like this.

Night has fallen, and I can’t keep still. For the hundredth time in the past hour, I shove back from my desk and pour myself another drink. The amber liquid burns its way down, but it does nothing. No comfort. No distraction. Nothing.

Sitting is impossible, so I pace. Aimlessly. My steps echo in the silence, the only sound breaking the stillness of the office.

The tightness in my chest has been building for hours, a crushing pressure worse than any bullet wound I’ve ever taken. It’s like a steel band wrapped around my ribs, squeezing tighter with every shallow breath. My heart feels trapped in a vise, locked in place, and it won’t let go.

But then there’s the sweat, damp on my skin, even as I shiver from the cold that’s settled deep in my bones. I roll up my sleeves, desperate for relief, and glance at the thermostat. Sixty-five degrees—somehow.

I stride to the windows behind my desk, resting my palms on the cold glass. The lack of insulation lets in just enough of the night air to make me feel marginally less suffocated. I press my forehead to the window, my breath fogging the glass, and stare at the city lights below without really seeing them.

Inhale. Exhale.

It’s all I can do—force myself to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Again. But it doesn’t help. The moment I let my mind wander, it spirals right back to her.

Kat.

Her face is burned into my mind, clear as if she were standing in front of me. That look in her eyes—the hurt, the desperation, the betrayal—it cuts through me like a blade.

It doesn’t matter if my eyes are open or closed. She’s there either way.

I try to push the image away, but it clings to me, gnawing at the edges of my sanity. And with every passing second, it gets worse. Her expression becomes sharper, the echo of her voice louder, accusing me over and over for what I’ve done.

It’s been hours, but I already know I’ll never forgive myself for locking her in that room. Not in this life. Not in the next.

Maybe, if we survive this awful night, she might forgive me. One day. That thought—the barest glimmer of hope—is the only thing holding me together right now. Even though I know I don’t deserve it.

A sudden commotion outside my office snaps me from my thoughts.

Shouting—loud, frantic, Russian—thunders in the hallway, overlapping and urgent, before cutting off as abruptly as it started.

The whispers that follow are quieter, hurried, barely audible through the thick door.

I sigh, dragging a hand down my face as I straighten. Whatever it is, it can’t be good. It never is.

If only apakhancould afford the luxury of personal days.

The knock on the door is hesitant, almost apologetic. I grit my teeth and bark the order in Russian to enter. The door creaks open, and Dmitri and Vladimir step inside.

Dmitri’s face is the perfect picture of impassive deference, which can only mean one thing: something truly awful has happened.

Cold dread knots in my stomach as I drop into my chair, pinching the bridge of my nose. “What is it now?” I snap, not bothering to mask my irritation.

The two exchange a quick, uneasy glance.

“Nik…” Dmitri begins cautiously, his voice unusually polite. He pauses, clearly searching for the right words, which only tightens the knot in my stomach. “I need you to stay calm.”

Ice spreads through my chest. “Out with it, Dmitri,” I demand sharply. “I’m not in the mood for your games tonight.”

He shifts uncomfortably on his feet, glancing at Vladimir before meeting my eyes again. “Nik…” he starts again, slower this time, like he’s treading on thin ice. “Kat’s gone.”

For a second, the words don’t register. I stare at him, unblinking, my brain struggling to make sense of what he’s just said. “She’swhat?” I roar, the sound so guttural it doesn’t even feel like it comes from me. I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. Intellectually, I know the words are mine, but emotionally, it feels like I’m watching myself shout from outside my body.

“She’s gone,” Dmitri says quickly, his words tumbling out now, trying to placate me. “She escaped. After finishing my rounds, I came back to check on her and you—I heard about your fight—and when I unlocked the bedroom door… she wasn’t there. No one saw her leave. She’s just… gone. Pretty much without a trace.”

The room seems to spin, but the one thing I can feel is my heart slamming viciously in my chest like it’s trying to break free. The rhythm is terrifyingly erratic—adrenaline, cardiac arrest, a panic attack? Maybe all three.

“How the fuck did this happen?” I hiss, my voice quiet, even as rage roars through my veins. “What kind of backyard operation am I running here that this woman can escape twice in two fucking days without anyone noticing? Should I expect McGuire himself to greet me in my own fucking kitchen tomorrow? I’ll have both your heads on a spike when I find her. Clearly, if I need something done, I have to do it myself.”

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