Page 51 of Chain Me

No glass. No ice. I unscrew the cap and take a long pull straight from the bottle. The liquor burns all the way down, igniting a fire in my chest that momentarily distracts from the hollow ache spreading through me.

Who cares what time it is? Erik certainly doesn’t care about anything related to me.

Another swallow. Then another. The burn lessens with each drink, replaced by a comforting numbness that creeps from my fingertips inward. I slide down against the kitchen island, the cool tile floor welcoming me as I cradle the bottle.

“Fuck you, Erik,” I whisper to the empty room, raising the bottle in a bitter toast.

Time blurs as the whiskey level drops. I think about the way he touched me as if I were something precious. The vulnerability in his eyes when he told me about his sister. All lies. Or worse—truth that meant nothing in the end.

My head spins pleasantly now, the sharp edges of betrayal dulled by alcohol. I laugh, the sound jarring in the quiet kitchen. How perfectly pathetic—drinking away my sorrows over a man who kidnapped me.

The bottle is half empty when I hear footsteps approaching. Heavy. Purposeful. I recognize them immediately, my treacherous heart speeding up despite everything.

I lift my eyes as Erik fills the doorway, his expression shifting from confusion to something darker when he spots me on the floor. The whiskey has loosened everything inside me—my limbs, my tongue, the tight control I keep on my emotions.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” I drawl, raising the bottle in a mocking salute. “Come to check on your package before delivery?”

Erik’s face hardens as he steps into the kitchen, closing the door behind him. “You shouldn’t be drinking that.”

“And you shouldn’t be avoiding me.” I take another defiant swig, the whiskey no longer burning but spreading warmth through my veins. “Your brother was kind enough to tell me I’m being sent home. When were you planning to mention it? After I was already in transit?”

Something flickers in his eyes—pain? Regret? I can’t tell anymore.

“It’s complicated.” His voice is tight and controlled.

“Bullshit.” I push myself up from the floor, swaying slightly. “You fuck me, make me feel things, then decide to ship me back to my father without even a goddamn conversation?”

Erik moves closer, reaching for the bottle. I jerk it away.

“Don’t touch me.” My voice breaks on the last word. “You don’t get to touch me anymore.”

“Katarina—”

“No!” The dam inside me ruptures. “Was any of it real? Or was it just a way to pass the time with your captive? Some sick game to make me vulnerable before you handed me over?”

He steps forward, backing me against the counter. The heat of his body so close to mine sends contradictory signals through my system—rage and desire tangling until I can’t separate them.

“It wasn’t a game.” His voice is raw. “None of it was a game.”

“Then why?” I hate the pleading note in my voice, the weakness I swore I’d never show.

His hands grip the counter on either side of me, caging me in. “They have Natasha Blackwood.”

“Natasha Blackwood?” I stare at Erik, confusion cutting through my whiskey haze. “What does that have to do with anything?”

The name rings a bell, but only faintly. A tall brunette I’ve seen at charity galas, always impeccably dressed. We’ve never exchanged more than passing pleasantries.

“Your father has her,” Erik says, his voice strained. “Took her three days ago as leverage against us.”

I shake my head, trying to make sense of his words. “I barely know her. Why would my father?—”

“She’s with Dmitri. My brother.” Erik’s hands drop from the counter, creating space between us. “They’ve been together publicly for a week or so now.”

The revelation stuns me. Natasha Blackwood with Dmitri Ivanov? I’ve been locked away in this compound, completely cut off from the outside world. Of course, I wouldn’t know about society’s newest power couple.

“So, this is all just... what? A prisoner exchange?” My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears.

Erik rubs a hand over his face. “It’s more complicated than that. Your father knows you’re here. He took Natasha to force our hand.” His eyes find mine, intensity burning through the alcohol-induced fog. “Sending you back to him isn’t a death sentence, Katarina. He wants his daughter back.”

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