Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Knox does a final sweep of the floor before his shift ends. “You’re all set. New team’s coming up in five minutes for the night shift.” He pauses at the elevator. “I’m heading home. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Knox. I’m sorry for all the commotion today.”
He grins. “Maybe stick to jewelry design.”
I’m still laughing as the elevator doors close. I head to my room to change—I bought a new red dress for tonight, wanting to look festive for our first Christmas Eve.
That’s when I hear the elevator again. Too soon for the new security team.
Too soon for Cole.
When I step into the hallway, it’s not Cole’s security team waiting for me.
I freeze in the hallway, my hand instinctively reaching for my phone before I remember it’s still in the kitchen. The space suddenly feels too small, too confined, as I recognize the two broad-shouldered men flanking a third figure—the Russians from the Met gala, their expressions as cold and impassive as I remember.
But it’s the figure between them who holds my attention. He’s a slight man, dressed in an impeccable charcoal suit that seems to absorb the light around him. His silver hair is perfectly styled, his smile pleasant and practiced—like a politician’s, or a shark’s. Everything about him screams old money and influence, right down to the signet ring on his right hand.
“Hello, Sloane,” he says, his voice carrying a slight accent I can’t quite place. “I’m Julian Voss.”
My throat goes dry. I’ve imagined this moment so many times, played out countless scenarios of finally meeting the man who’s been haunting the edges of my life. But standing here now, I realize none of my imagined confrontations prepared me for the reality of him.
“I must say,” he continues as he bends down to scoop up Havoc, who had bounded over to investigate the newcomers, “what a delightful puppy.” His manicured fingers scratch behind Havoc’s ears, the gesture almost gentle. The sight of my dog in his arms makes my stomach turn.
Something in my expression must show, because his smile widens slightly. I glance toward the security panel near the elevator, its light blinking red instead of the usual green. Somehow, they’ve disabled it.
“The new security team won’t be joining us,” Voss says, reading my thoughts. “I hoped we could have a private conversation.
“You remind me of Claire, you know. She had the same . . . fire.” His gaze drops to my throat. “Your designs are so close. Not exact, but close.”
One of the Russians steps forward, grabbing my arm with bruising force. I struggle instinctively, managing to land one solid kick to his knee before the second man pushes me against the wall, hand at my throat.
“Careful,” Julian says sharply. “She needs to be intact.”
I think of Knox, already headed home, and Cole, stuck in his meeting across town. My mind races, trying to calculate options, escape routes, anything.
I see the movement too late. The Russians step forward in perfect synchronization, and before I can scream, one of them presses a cloth against my face. The world begins to blur at the edges.
The last thing I see is Voss carefully setting Havoc down, the puppy’s tail still wagging as my vision goes dark.
Chapter Thirty-Six Sloane
The first thing I notice when I regain consciousness is that my captors have excellent taste in furniture. The chair I’m tied to is Danish modern, all sleek lines and butter-soft leather. The room itself could be featured in Architectural Digest—if you ignored the whole “hostage situation” vibe.
My heart is trying to punch through my ribs, and there’s a scream building in my throat that I refuse to let out. Fear claws at my insides—raw, primal terror that threatens to shatter my carefully maintained composure. But I can’t fall apart. Not now. Not when my life depends on keeping my wits about me.
One of the Russians checks the restraints, his grip bruising as he yanks the silk rope tighter. My wrists burn from the friction, but I bite back a whimper. The other one—I’ve mentally named them Boris and Vladimir—sets up a sleek laptop on the desk, connecting it to some kind of strange device with a camera lens and what looks like a hand scanner.
A hysterical laugh bubbles up as I realize this is exactly like one of those mafia romances I pretend not to read. Except this isn’t fiction, and there’s no guarantee of a happy ending.
Deep breath. Channel your inner femme fatale, Sloane.
I’ve managed to kick off my heels, partly out of spite, partly because if I’m going to die, it’s not going to be in four-inch Louboutins. The rope around my wrists is silk. Because of course it is.
“The facial recognition system is ready,” one of the Russians says, his accent thick.
“Good.” Julian’s voice comes from the doorway. “That’s why we’re keeping her face pretty. For now.”