Page 89 of Victor's Lethal Desire
Panic flares, and my hands are clasped together in front of me now. I feel the bite of new zip ties cinching tightly around my wrists.
Someone grabs my bound hands and lifts them over my head.
I try to pull them down, but they won't move.
I'm stuck.
I yank again, harder this time, and feel the resistance. My wrists are hooked onto something above me. A chain, a pipe, I don't know.
Voices are all around me, speaking in Russian, and there are too many to count.
I turn my head toward the sounds, trying to locate them even though I can't see a damn thing.
I try to speak, to tell them all to go fuck themselves, but the gag stops the words before I can get them out.
After a moment, the voices stop, and a door slams shut. I jump, startled by the sudden noise.
There's nothing now but silence and the sound of my own breathing.
I'm alone.
I tilt my head, straining my ears to hear anything, footsteps, voices, but there's nothing.
My shoulders start to ache almost immediately. My arms are stretched too high, pulling at the joints, and the weight of my body hanging from them sends sharp pains shooting down my sides.
Minutes pass, but I can't tell how many.
The pain in my shoulders intensifies, a dull, throbbing burn that spreads to my neck and upper back.
I shift my weight, trying to relieve the pressure, but it doesn't help.
I close my eyes beneath the hood, focusing on my breathing, trying to slow my racing heart.
Victor is dead.
The thought slams into me like a fist.
No. He's not. He can't be.
But the guards said it. They said the hit squad got him.
My chest tightens.
What if he died because of me?
The thought is unbearable.
I shake my head, trying to push it away, but it lingers, gnawing at the edges of my mind.
Focus. You need to focus on how the hell you might get out of here.
But all I can think about is him.
His smile. His voice. The way he kissed me, fucked me like the world was ending and he didn't care.
Maybe he knew it was only a matter of time. Maybe he...
The door opens.
