Page 44 of Marked By His Touch

“You were in the container back in Cole’s warehouse, shipping off to—”

“Da,I go to Russia,” Zara hisses. “Home to Nikolai, my love.”

I scratch the bridge of my nose, my eyes downcast.Of course. Why hadn’t I seen this? I’ve been so focused on Nikolai, on the danger he represents, that I haven’t seen the threat lurking closer, the threat I thought I could trust. It’s a lesson learned the hard way. Trust no one.Not even your instincts.

“Don’t worry. In family, we have room for more women. And you special. You come back with me to Russia.Anya Petrov.” Nikolai says.

Zara’s eyes cloud over, her gaze hard and unforgiving. “We don’t need her, ragdoll, Nikolai. She trouble. She is stupid.”

Nikolai steps forward, his hand slashing across Zara’s face, leaving a stinging red mark. Zara stumbles back, her hand clutching her cheek, but she doesn’t utter a word.

“You don’t tell me what to do,devushka!” he roars.

“Sorry–my love,” Zara says, a hurt expression in her eyes.

The dots connect in my mind, a chilling realization: Zara’s constant flirting with Alexander, her attempts to steal him away—was it revenge? For something I didn't even know I'd done? Had I unwittingly become the obsession of a ruthless Russian mafia king, a man she loves? The thought makes me gulp down awave of nausea. I force myself to focus on Nikolai Romanov. He steps back, exchanging a brief, silent handshake with Cole.

They retreat to the other end of the room, and I hear them mention “Alexander,”something about“making problems.”I feel a knot of fear tighten in my stomach. Could the whole fight scene have been staged between them, a trap set specifically for me? Are they still allies? If yes, then this is bad news for me.

Like you’re not in enough trouble, Ava.

The phone Katerina gave us is still in my pocket, weighted against my skin. Zara slipped it in there after we entered the club. Her latex outfit was too skimpy, and the phone bulged awkwardly beneath it. I wonder if she’s forgotten about it.

With a nod and a gesture of his hand, Nikolai sends one of his men to escort Zara out of the room.He’s a master of control, a puppet master who manipulates every one around him, isn’t he?

“Tie the three of them up, lock the door,” he commands. “Anya—sweet one, I be back for you soon.” His piercing eyes meet mine. There’s a hunger in them, a predatory need that makes icy tendrils snake down my spine, chilling me to the bone.

“I’m not your sweet one; go to hell!” I spit, straightening my back.

“Keep the — foreplay for later. I like very much, a fiery woman,” he smirks and walks out of the room.

The door slamsshut a heavy thud echoing through theDoctor’s room.Metal grates against metal; the sound is like a death knell, sealing us in. I stare at the door, and try to move in my chair. My hands bound behind my back to the chair, a familiar feeling of helplessness threatening to drown me. But this time,it’s different. This time, there’s a fire in my belly, a defiance that refuses to be extinguished.

I remind myself that I’ve chosen this life and have to fight. I have to deal with the consequences. This isn’t a game, and I won’t play the damsel in distress. Even if Zara betrayed us, I’m no ragdoll. I’m not going to break.

My eyes scan the room, searching for any clue, any way to break free. The room is small, sparsely furnished, a sterile, clinical space designed for efficiency, not comfort. A place designed for a sex cult.

A single, harsh fluorescent light illuminates the space. The only sound is Tatiana and Lena’s heavy, rhythmic breathing, each struggling to contain their fear.

The phone in my pocket.I need to reach Katerina. I need to get them here. We need to get out.

“Tatya, are you okay?”

“I-I—,” she stammers, then she’s silent.

“Lena?”

“I’m okay,” Lena says, “Just pissed off. Fuckers. Zara—”

“Yes, I know. She’s afucker,too,” I say.

My hands are bound. I wiggle my fingers, feeling the rough rope dig into my skin. My focus narrows, and every muscle in my body tense.

I remember Zara's trick: a quick spit on my palm, a swipe of saliva across the knot to make it slippery. The first few attempts are clumsy, but on the fifth try, the spit lands right where it needs to. I rub my hands together, spreading the moisture, and the rope on one hand begins to loosen.

My heart pounds as I pull the phone from my inner dress pocket below my bra. The cool phone feels strange against my skin. I fumble with the lock screen, my fingers clumsy and shaking.

I have to get through.

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