Page 32 of Scarlet Secrets

“Collateral damage.” He sighs, sends a text, then puts the phone back on his thigh, his long, strong fingers holding it, and—I’m not going there. He doesn’t look at me as he continues. “He wasn’t the target. Alina was.”

There’s a burst of savagery in his tone and I study him a moment, take in the stoic, almost emotionlessness of him. I can’t help but think there might be a world teeming with all kinds of sharp and wild emotions.

Yeah, probably of the deadly kind.

“I still don’t understand. She was terrified. I don’t know her that well, but I like her. And…” I stop. “Why were you there, anyway?”

“My sister is the bride. I’m the reason they took her. Fuck.”

Everything in me goes cold and I swear my jaw drops. Alina’s his sister? I can sort of see it now, but shit. When I met her weeks ago, I had no idea I was meeting Sasha’s aunt.

The webs were getting thick and?—

“We’re here.”

I don’t ask him where here is. It’s a mansion set back on a large property, surrounded by a tall brick wall and there’s aguard box, automated gates, and beyond that, there are quite clearly men in black uniforms with guns. Big ones.

So many of them. Everywhere. And once the guard checks the driver, the gates open and we drive in.

The grounds look expansive, dark but for two or three windows glowing.

All that consumes me as we make our way up the long drive that’s clear of trees is how it offers a sightline from the mansion to the gate, removing any cover for a surprise attack.

This must be his mansion. I swallow hard and force myself to say, “How long?”

“How long what?”

He already sounds bored and I clench my fingers on the glass and the plastic of the water bottle. “How long am I here for?” The more I stare at the grounds and high wall, at the guards we pass, and the looming mansion, the more this whole thing resembles a prison.

“As long as it takes.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Sasha, I want to scream, that’s why not. “Because I’ve got a life, and this is unreasonable. This is kidnapping.”

“Or tit for tat, as they say.”

“I don’t know who took your sister.”

“And yet you were there. Front and center. And Max is dead, so he can neither confirm nor deny your story of friendship.”

“So you’re holding me against my will. I don’t even know your name.”

“I’m Demyan Yegorov.”

I swallow hard again, my throat sandpaper. There’s something I can’t put my finger on, something familiar, but then again, I probably heard his last name when Max introduced me to Alina. Tom didn’t say a word about his realidentity, just to keep away. And here I am, headed straight for his lair.

So I just nod stupidly, and as we get closer, I take in the gardens that start, the beauty of the mansion itself. Almost gothic in its build. If this were another time, and maybe broad daylight, I’d find it beautiful, the old-world charm appealing.

We pull up, and no light comes on to welcome us, just guards watching. And like something out of a horror film, the front door opens, offering more darkness.

I don’t move. Demyan reaches over and plucks the glass from me, then takes the bottle. Finally, he unclips my seat belt, which I don’t even remember putting on.

He leans in farther, body brushing mine, and it sends my heart skittering. He shoves open my door, then peels away, opening his. “Get out,” he says stepping out of the car.

For a moment I sit, wondering what would happen if I refuse. But the crunch of gravel grows and his shadow falls over me, making where I sit darker still. The front doors slam. Footsteps move away.

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