Page 18 of Salvation

Pain pulsed behind my eyes, a steady throb that dragged me from the darkness into unwelcome consciousness. I tried to lift my hand to my head but found my wrists bound together with something tight that bit into my skin. Panic flared, momentarily overriding the pain. My eyes snapped open to darkness, then adjusted to reveal dim shadows cast by a single flickering bulb hanging from a concrete ceiling. This wasn’t the fair. This wasn’t home. Cold dread settled in my stomach as memories flashed -- cotton candy, colored lights, Salvation’s warm gaze just before we lost Clover in the crowd. Before everything went black.

Clover. My heartbeat accelerated. Where was she?

I forced myself to sit up despite the way the room tilted around me. The damp and cold from the concrete floor seeped through my jeans. Concrete walls surrounded us in a small, windowless box. A basement, maybe. Or a storage room. I scanned the space and my breath caught when I spotted a small figure huddled against the wall.

“Clover?” My voice came out as a rasp, my throat raw as if I’d been screaming.

She lifted her head, face pale in the weak light. Zip ties bound her wrists together in front of her, matching mine. Her eyes were red-rimmed, mascara streaked down her cheeks, but she wasn’t crying now. She stared at me with a shell-shocked expression that broke my heart.

“Yulia,” she whispered. “You’re awake.”

I scooted toward her, ignoring the wave of nausea that followed the movement. “Are you hurt?”

“Just scared. I never should have gone back to that henna booth. They grabbed me while I was looking at the tattoos and deciding if I wanted one. Put something over my mouth. Then not much later, they took you too.” Her voice cracked. “They dragged you into the van and took off.”

I reached out with my bound hands, brushing hair from her face. My fingers trembled slightly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.”

“Not your fault,” she murmured, leaning into my touch like she had as a small child. Despite everything, my heart swelled with love for this girl who wasn’t mine by blood but was mine in every way that mattered.

The Bratva. It had to be. After eleven years, they’d finally found me. My father’s enemies, coming to finish what they’d started when I was sixteen. I traced one of the silvery scars on my wrist with my thumb, the familiar gesture bringing no comfort now. I’d always known this day might come, had prepared myself for it, but I’d never imagined they’d take Clover too.

“It will be okay, malishka,” I whispered, my accent thickening as it always did under stress. “Your father will find us.”

“How?” Her voice was so small, so afraid.

“He’s Salvation.” I tried to sound confident. “And the entire club will be looking. The Reckless Kings do not abandon their own.”

Clover nodded, pressing closer to my side. I wrapped my bound arms around her as best I could, ignoring the bite of the plastic ties. We sat in silence for several minutes, listening to the distant hum of what might have been a furnace or water heater.

Then, voices filtered through the thin door -- men arguing. I stiffened, straining to hear.

“-- too fucking low,” one voice snarled. “They can afford more. They got the whole drug trade locked down.”

“Don’t be stupid,” a second voice replied. “Two hundred grand is plenty. Push for more and they’ll just come gunning for us.”

“That’s the whole point of hostages, dipshit. Insurance.”

“These ain’t just any hostages. That’s Salvation’s kid. And his woman.”

“Exactly. Time to teach those Reckless Kings a lesson in humility. They walk around like they own this town.”

I frowned, confusion replacing some of my fear. These weren’t Russian accents. There was no mention of my father, of taking me back to face punishment. Just talk of ransom and teaching the club a lesson.

The realization hit me like ice water. These weren’t Bratva professionals sent to collect me. They were local thugs who’d targeted the club, and Clover and I had been convenient targets at the fair.

Relief made me dizzy for a moment -- relief that this wasn’t about my past. But it was quickly replaced by new fear. Amateur kidnappers were unpredictable. Dangerous in different ways than trained Bratva soldiers would be.

“Two hundred thousand, final offer,” the second voice continued. “We’ll be in touch in the next hour, give them proof of life, and set the drop for midnight.”

“That’s not much time. What about six in the morning?”

“I guess that works,” the second voice said.

“Fine. But I still say --”

The voices faded as the men moved away from the door. I looked down at Clover, who had gone very still against me.

“They want money,” she whispered. “Dad won’t give it to them, will he?”

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