Page 78 of Chain Me

“Hey! HEY!” My voice cracks from shouting. “What’s happening? Someone answer me!”

Silence from the hallway. Not even footsteps.

I press my ear to the door, holding my breath to listen. Nothing but my own pulse thundering in my ears and the distant sound of what might be vehicles or might be my imagination running wild.

My hands shake as I fumble through the room, searching for anything—a phone, a radio, a carrier pigeon. But of course, there’s nothing. Father made sure of that. No laptop, no cell phone, no connection to the outside world whatsoever.

“This is insane.” I rake my fingers through my hair, tugging at the roots. “I’m locked in here like some fairy tale princess while World War Three breaks out downstairs.”

The gunfire comes in bursts now, punctuated by shouts that are too distant to make out the words. Male voices are urgent and commanding, but I can’t tell if they belong to our security team or someone else entirely.

Is someone trying to break in? The Petrovs come to claim their prize early? Or maybe?—

I slam that thought down before it can form completely. False hope will only exacerbate the situation.

But as another explosion shakes the house and sends my jewelry box tumbling off the dresser, I can’t help the wild flutter in my chest that whispers:What if?

The gunfire intensifies, echoing through the house like deadly fireworks. I pace from the window to the door and backagain, my bare feet silent on the Persian rug. Each shot makes me flinch, and the waiting is driving me insane.

“Come on, come on.” I press my palms against my ears, trying to block out the sound, but it’s useless. The chaos downstairs seeps through the walls like poison.

A particularly loud explosion rocks the house, and I stumble against the dresser. Picture frames rattle, and somewhere below, glass shatters. My father’s voice cuts through the noise—shouting orders, his tone sharp with authority and something else.

Fear.

Igor Lebedev, afraid? The man who built an empire on intimidation and violence is actually scared?

I move back to the door, pressing my ear against the cool wood. The shooting seems closer now, moving through the house instead of staying contained outside. My pulse hammers so loudly, I’m surprised the whole world can’t hear it.

Then—footsteps in the hallway.

Fast, deliberate.

My blood turns to ice. Those aren’t my father’s men. Our security team has heavy boots that announce their presence like a marching band. These steps are different.

The sound grows closer, and panic floods my system.

I dive behind the bed without thinking, pulling my knees to my chest and making myself as small as possible. The antique four-poster provides a decent cover, but if someone really wants to find me, they will.

My heart pounds so hard I’m certain it’ll give me away. I clamp my hand over my mouth, trying to muffle my ragged breathing.

The footsteps pause right outside my door.

A soft click reaches my ears—someone testing the handle. It’s locked. So next, I hear the unmistakable sound of metal againstmetal. Someone is picking my lock. The lock turns slowly, deliberately, like they’re being careful not to make noise.

I squeeze my eyes shut and pray to whatever gods might be listening. If it’s Anton Petrov coming to collect his bride early, I’m fucked. If it’s my father’s enemies looking for leverage, I’m dead. If it’s?—

The door creaks open.

I hold my breath and press myself deeper into the shadows behind the bed, every muscle in my body coiled tight as a spring.

Measured footsteps enter my room.

The footsteps stop just inside my room. One heartbeat. Two.

Then I hear it—low, rough, unmistakably familiar.

“Katarina.”

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