Page 52 of The Russian's Kidnapped Bride
My mouth goes dry, and my heart rate picks up.
My mind flits back to what he said about him burying me if he were a worse man, and it sticks with me.
I know I’ve been a pain in the ass the last few weeks…
But surely not… surely, he wouldn’t do that after everything? The longer I think about it, the harder my heart pounds against my ribs.
Then, the Range Rover slows in front of a house at the end of a dead-end street, tires crunching the gravel. Keeping the headlights on, he reaches over me and pops the glovebox open, then grabs a pistol with a silencer attached.
My eyes widen.
“Mikhail, what is this?” I ask, prepared to full-out panic.
Not answering my question, he undoes his seatbelt and gestures for me to follow. “Just stay close, and don’t wander off…we’ll be out of here in ten minutes.”
It’s not at all comforting, but he’s already out of the vehicle before I can ask any follow-up questions.
Getting out from my side, I follow him reluctantly up the front steps and across the closed-in porch. It’s a small place with chipped paint and remnants of an old chain-link fence, half-buried in the overgrown grass.
The property hasn’t been maintained in years, if ever.
There’s no car in the driveway, and I would assume nobody was home if it weren’t for a light on in one of the rooms.
Mikhail knocks, and even after a moment, nobody answers. He tries the door, and the knob moves with ease.
“Mikhail—” I whisper, only for him to raise a finger against his lips, quieting me before he begins inside.
Everything about the situation feels incredibly wrong, and even being near the house raises goosebumps along my arms. I don’t like the situation one bit, but he doesn’t give me any other option.
Swallowing back the dryness in my throat, I hesitate on the porch and watch as he slowly disappears into the dark entrance. Without any clear instructions, I don’t know if I should follow the whole time or wait. But either way, I damn well don’t want to be caught out there alone.
Urging myself to be brave, I silently follow, hearing muffled voices from a room over.
Immediately, the house smells musty and off-putting, but Mikhail apparently ignores it entirely as he moves to the next room.
As I do the same, I spot the blue-white glow of an old TV screen. The voices become clearer as I realize it’s the harmlesschatter of a children’s show. And in front of the TV is a little boy sitting by himself.
My brows furrow, and I try to throw Mikhail a questioning look, but he just keeps moving, walking around the boy before slipping into an adjacent room. He leaves the door open a crack behind him, but for the most part, he’s out of my sight, making my chest squeeze.
A surprised-sounding voice comes from that room, followed by what sounds like Russian words being exchanged. Mikhail’s voice is firmer and more commanding, and I have the feeling he’s the one dominating the conversation.
With no clue of what to do, I stand there like an idiot, keeping my back to the nearest wall while the TV screen alternates between various colorful frames, and those childish voices send a chill down my back in contrast.
I look at the little boy as he glances over his shoulder at me, eyes wide and uncertain. He has a ratty-looking stuffed bear in his lap, and his clothes look too small for him as the hem of his pajamas reaches just above his ankles.
He can’t be older than four or five.
Just from taking in the wariness in his gaze, I can tell he has seen things he never should’ve been exposed to. And the way he looks back at me tells me he’s wondering if I’m a friend or foe.
He’s so small…and clearly underfed.
My heart lurches while the voices in the other room rise, noticing how he just barely shakes.
Taking a few short steps closer, I crouch down and try to keep my movements steady and slow. My voice leaves me softly, “Hi.”
The boy doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t look away from me either.
“What’s your name?” I ask gently, growing more curious and concerned.
