Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 63638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
I try to keep the edge from my voice when I call Viktor, the guard covering perimeter duty this morning.
“Pull the camera feeds,” I say. “My mother’s nurse slipped out overnight. I need timestamps and a trail.”
“Yes, boss.” He doesn’t ask why—though I’ve never made this request before.
My hand clenches around my phone as I pace the office, my thoughts racing too fast to catch. We were fine last night. We were ravenous for each other, in fact. Not even twelve hours have passed since I bent her over this very desk and she turned my darkest fantasies real.
The possibility that she left willingly sits like a stone in my chest. If she found out what I do, I could at least understand it, even if it would still gut me. But what if she didn’t leave on her own?
I don’t let myself finish that thought.
The door bursts open, and Sasha barrels in with his hair rumpled and shirt half-buttoned, like he ran out before he could finish dressing. Hell, after my frantic call, he probably did.
“They found her car.” He’s breathless.
My blood goes cold.
“Where?” I ask sharply.
“Ten minutes from the gate,” he says quickly. “Off the service road near the south bend. It was empty, driver’s window busted out.”
I’m already storming down the hall. “Any signs of her?”
“No,” Sasha says, falling into step beside me. “No blood. No signs of a struggle. But the car was still running.”
Fuck.
“Could she have ditched it?” I ask, just ticking boxes.
“And go where?” Sasha counters. “She wouldn’t just walk off into the woods, not at night. And her bag’s still in the car. Her purse, wallet, and even her phone. I don’t know any woman who would just disappear without those essentials.”
I stop just inside the front doors and face him. “You think someone took her?”
Sasha hesitates. “Nothing else makes sense,” he finally admits.
I drag a hand down my face, fighting the surge of rage clawing up my throat. “Do you think it was Semion?” I ask flatly.
“It very well could be,” Sasha agrees, his voice cautious.
We both know that if this is Semion, he’s effectively declared war on our organization. Such a bold and personal attack warrants no less.
I grab my phone and send out an alert. Every man within fifty miles receives the mobilization alert. Everyone needs to get to the compound ASAP so we can plan our next move.
“She couldn’t have gone far,” I growl. “Pull road surveillance. Check the gas station cameras on the main road, the tunnel cams, and traffic feeds. I want eyes on every possible route she could have taken. And find out what time she left.”
“I’m already on it,” Sasha says, pulling out his phone. “And I’ll call Dmitri. He has back-door access to the NYPD systems. If anyone reports a missing woman, or a Jane Doe ends up in a hospital—”
“Don’t,” I snap, cutting him off. “She’s not going to be a fucking Jane Doe.”
He pauses, studying me carefully. “I didn’t mean to insinuate—”
“I know what you meant,” I say, quieter this time. “Just find her.”
“I will,” he promises. “We will.”
He heads back out, leaving me alone with my thoughts. This is my fault. I thought I could shield her from the violence of my world and focus on us. I believed that if she stayed close and remained in the dark, we could avoid this exact scenario.
She was never supposed to get involved with this side of my life.
I start pacing again, my mind running through everything I could’ve done to prevent this from happening. I don’t have any answers yet, but I will find them. And when I do, God help whoever stands between us.
The seconds drag. The minutes crawl. I prowl my office like a caged animal ready to pounce. Every glance at my phone yields nothing useful.
Everyone is on red alert; they know to send me a message the second they find anything. Their silence offers no comfort. It’s a stark reminder of what a failure I am. I can’t even find her.
At some point during the hellish wait, my mother slips into the office, silk robe loose at her waist, slippers whispering over the hardwood. She looks pale but otherwise steady. She hasn’t been out of bed much since her stroke, so seeing her like this feels like a miracle. But I know it was all thanks to Nicole.
“Mom, you should get back in bed,” I tell her gently, draping an arm around her shoulders and steering her toward the door.
“No, you don’t,” she argues, turning on me with more force than I realized she was capable of. “Where is Nicole? What did you do to upset her?”
Her chastising tone blindsides me, and suddenly I feel six years old again, scolded for shattering an antique vase.
“She left, Mom,” I say, giving her only the bare minimum. I can’t bear for her to blame me, too. “But I’m trying to find her and bring her back.”