Page 5 of The Russian's Kidnapped Bride
Stumbling back, I reach for my phone in my pocket, fumbling with it in my hand while my heart is in my throat.
My pulse races, and too many familiar memories flood into my mind, burning while they try to override my focus.
The blood, the violence, the police informing me of what happened to my brother Wyatt…
My hands shake while I press on the call feature, trying my hardest to click those three little numbers.
911—that’s all I need to dial. All I need to do.
But a gloved hand clamps down on my wrist just as I punch in the first one, and I never get the chance.
Another turns me around by the hip and pushes me against the brick wall with terrifying strength.
I go to scream, but the sound catches in my throat, and my voice is suddenly useless. My phone hits the concrete, and leather-clad fingers hold my jaw in place. I want to cry immediately.
“Don’t make a sound,” he says, voice deep yet unbothered. His dark eyes scan my face, looking cold and detached. Almost like he’s bored, or maybe tired of dealing with noise.
Quite literally caught in his clutches, I freeze, and my eyes widen. I’m trembling, and I can’t slow my heart rate down.
Every trace of logic in my mind drains, and my brain short-circuits. I should scream for help. I should kick and punch my way out, but I can’t even breathe.
The man is far taller than me, and he’s built like a carved statue. His grip isn’t painful, but it’s firm enough as if he already knows I don’t stand a chance. Like he’s aware of just how capable of crushing me he is.
I try to glance over at the end of the alleyway, but he corrects me. “Don’t look at them. We can’t have you remembering any faces.”
Even if he hasn’t done anything to hurt me yet, I’m shaking so hard I know he can feel it. My knees feel pathetic, like they’re on the verge of giving out.
I want to ask who he is, and I want to demand that he let me go and give me my phone back, but I don’t have that kind of bravery in me. I wish I did.
“I’m not involved with them,” I murmur, voice barely above a whisper.
“I know you’re not,” he returns as if it’s obvious.
“I don’t know the Lukovs, I’ve only heard the name—”
But I trail off as his expression hardens, and so does his grip.
“What did you say?”
I swallow hard and release a shaky breath, feeling prickles of more panic down my spine. I can’t help but feel like I said the wrong thing. “They mentioned the name Lukov, but I didn’t see anything.”
“You’re lying.”
I am, and he’s right. He knows it.
We pause, and for a moment, he hesitates, then scoops up my phone with ease and grabs my arm.
“Wrong place, wrong time, girl.”
My stomach clenches to the point of aching, and before I know it, I’m being hauled down the other end of the alleyway.
When he takes a left down another side street, a different vehicle is waiting. It’s sleek and ominous with those tinted windows, looking like the last thing I should be approaching.
Despite how hard my heart pounds against my ribcage, my legs continue to move, and the rest of the fight in me seems to ebb away. Then he pops the door open and gestures for me to head inside.
Everything in me screams not to go. To wriggle away and fight.
But I obey.
