Page 95 of Cruel Obsession

“Your old man lied through his teeth about leaving the trade after Blackout. He’s got crews working the streets—New York, Jersey, Boston. Hunting for girls. Specific types. Whatever the Arabs are paying top dollar for this season.” He spits the words out like poison. “They corner them outside clubs, wave cash and promises. Or just grab them off the street if they’re desperate enough. Either way—” A pause, heavy with meaning. “Once they’re gone, they stay gone. The cops? They take Gavriil’s money and file the paperwork. Parents get a case number and fuck-all else.”

Operation Blackout. The name alone makes something dark unfurl inside me, spreading through my chest like ink in water. Six years ago. The convoy we intercepted on that forest road. The girls we saved—twelve of them, terrified and drugged. And the ones we didn’t. The ones already shipped out, already lost.

“Pizdets,” I mutter, teeth grinding together so hard my jaw aches. “This is worse than I thought.”

“Da.” Stefan’s agreement hangs between us like a noose. “I’ve kept an eye on him and his men. Gavriil was in the Emiratesnot long ago. I think he got a big offer from an oil billionaire for concubines.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” I say. The bastard has connections everywhere—sheikhs, oligarchs, men with more money than morals. Men who see girls as commodities. “Did you find out anything else?”

“Well… I managed to find someone to track my daughter’s phone, even though her battery died. It seems they found where she is… which is why I’m calling you now.”

Fuck. I wish he’d called me sooner. But we’ll get to that later.

Right now, a familiar coldness settles behind my sternum—the same sensation I felt before every mission, before every kill. The assassin awakening, pushing aside the man who feels and thinks and hesitates. “Where? Where is she, Stefan?”

He pulls in a breath. Let’s it out, before answering.

“In the cellar of your father’s house.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Mirabel

My stomach convulses for the fourth consecutive morning, and I barely make it to the toilet before everything comes up.

I grip the porcelain, knuckles white, as another wave hits. Sweat breaks across my forehead as acid burns my throat raw.

Four days. Four mornings. Same time, same violent purge.

When it’s over, I slump against the cool bathroom wall, drawing in ragged breaths. The marble tiles press against my legs as I wipe my mouth with a trembling hand.

This isn’t food poisoning.

The realization sits heavy in my chest, impossible to ignore any longer. I’ve been counting days in my head, running calculations, making excuses. But my body is speaking a truth my mind has been avoiding.

I push myself up from the floor, splash water on my face, and stare at my reflection. My skin looks paler, almost translucent in places. Dark circles shadow my eyes. I could blame it on stress—God knows there’s been enough of that lately with Arkady’s behavior growing more erratic, his mood darkening for some unknown reason.

But I know better.

My hand drifts to my stomach, resting against the slight curve that wasn’t there a few weeks ago. Not enough for anyone to notice yet, just enough for my clothes to fit differently.

I fish my phone from my pocket, fingers unsteady as I dial.

“Morning, sunshine,” Diane answers, her voice bright enough to make me wince. “You calling to say you’re finally escaping that mansion for brunch with your bestie?”

“I need to talk,” I say, my voice catching. “It’s important.”

There’s a pause, then her tone shifts. “What’s wrong?”

“I think… I’m pregnant.”

The words hang in the air, the first time I’ve said them aloud. They sound foreign, impossible. Yet utterly real.

“Shit,” she breathes. “Arkady’s?”

“Who else’s?” I snap, then immediately regret it. “Sorry. Yes. His.”

“You’re sure?”