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Chapter 10

ISABELLA

3 Years Ago

Roman: 19 years old – Isabella: 17 years old.

Roman is probably kidnapping me right now. Even if it weren’t a maybe but a definitely, I probably wouldn’t put up as much of a fight as I should.

I have absolutely no idea where we’re going. It’s not like I can ask him since we’re on a motorbike. I don’t need to see the dash to know we haven’t been going anywhere near the legal speed limit for the past three hours. All I know is that my ass hurts, my hands are cold, and my back aches from gripping onto him for dear life.

We pass a series of back roads and forestry that give my stomach a run for its money, and I almost fall off once or twice.

If this is a kidnapping, I will fight him tooth and nail for the two things keeping me in place: graduation and Jeremy. Because maybe I’ll have an epiphany on what I want to do with my life once I walk onto the stage and have the certificate in my hands.

There’s not a single thing in the world that would make me leave Jeremy with those horrible people. If I could, I’d take him in and raise him myself, but what type of life would he have? Best-case scenario, I manage to convince state services to move Jeremy to a half-decent home.

I breathe a sigh of relief when we finally slow down, only to groan when he turns us down a dodgy driveway, passing through a busted gate coated in rust hidden behind excessive overgrowth. I can barely see the gravel beneath all the weeds and fallen leaves.

The ground crunches beneath the wheel, and I hold back a gag.

There are probably a bunch of animal carcasses hidden under there.

Yuck.

Maybe he isn’t kidnapping me, but skipping straight to murder. I probably wouldn’t be surprised if he decided to turn this into a suicide pact.

My only assurance that he will continue wreaking havoc for at least one more day is the fact that Mikhail and Maxim don’t have a single mark bestowed upon them by Roman in the name of my honor.

Or maybe it’s Mickey trying to avenge me.

Or maybe it’s his excuse to punch something. Not like he’d need to use me as an excuse. If he feels like it, he’ll just do it.

My grip around his waist grows tighter as the bike maneuvers around potholes and angry-looking bushes. I pray to God I don’t see a dead animal. That may just ruin my mood more than the twins did.

We finally come to a stop in front of a rickety old house that looks like it hasn’t seen life in years. He kills the engine and doesn’t waste any time dismounting, shucking off his helmet, and grinning at me like a kid who is proudly showing off his art project to a parent.

Hesitantly, I unclip the helmet and slide off the bike, landing on the ground with a thud. The muscles in my thighs protest, and I throw my hand back to keep balanced. Mickey has the audacity to look pleased about my suffering.

Ass.

“Do you like it?” he asks in the same voice Jeremy uses when he pretends to seek your approval, but is really just fishing for compliments because he knows it’s good. Although, I don’t think that’s a word I would associate with the horror house in front of me.

Cobwebs hang across the deck like layers of chiffon, and darkness hides between the cracks of broken wooden beams, moldy and gray from neglect. Slats are nailed over windows, making the place look even more unwelcoming.

There’s no doubt in my mind that someone was murdered here. If I start digging around, I’m sure I’ll find some bodies that didn’t make it to the coroner’s office.

How the hell did Mickey find this place?

Better yet, what on earth are we doing here?

“I know what you’re thinking.” He sidles up next to me and throws his arm over my shoulder as if he were a top-shot real estate agent. “Wow, Mickey, this is amazing! I can’t believe how romantic and perfect you are.” Mimicking my voice, he places a hand over his heart. “Thank you for driving me three hours to the middle of nowhere and being so perfect.”

I glare at him and his stupidly smug face. It only seems to encourage him.

He cups my cheek and says, “Well, my sweet Bella, to that, I say you are most welcome. Anything for you.”

“Right. So are you going to kill me?” I half mutter out of unease, and half grumble out of impatience.

He pinches my cheek as I scowl at him, slapping his hand away. “Vicious princess.” Chuckling while entwining our fingers, he pulls me along behind him. “But no, not yet.”

“That doesn’t bring me any comfort.” I glower.

With a wink, he grabs a bag from inside his bike, and starts dragging me behind the house to an even freakier-looking shed. If he isn’t killing me, is he killing someone else?

God, what if he has hostages in there?

“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you,” Mickey croons, and I hit his chest lightly. The act seems playful from the outside, but my rapidly increasing heart rate is a whole other story.

“What are we doing here, Roman?” I tense, waiting for another non-answer.

He’s good at those.

“Don’t call me that.” His gaze darkens, and I almost regret saying anything. But I have a right to know what we’re doing at an abandoned house, walking toward a creepy shed when the sun is just about to set. He can get over being called something other than Mickey. “Be patient.”

Sensing my agitation, he pauses to face me. Just when I think he’s going to soothe my worries and give me the answers I so desperately want at this moment, he makes my anxieties worse. I'm not sure what I expect when he pulls something out of his pocket, but it wasn’t a black cloth that he proceeds to tie around my head to cover my eyes.

The world around me plunges into darkness, and my adrenaline kicks up a notch, making me hyper-aware of every thread of fabric touching my skin.

“Leave it,” he warns as my hands move toward my face.

“What the hell, Mickey! I can’t see anything.” He’s meant to be terrorizing everyone but me.

“That’s exactly the point.”

I growl under my breath, but bite back a smile. This time, when I touch the cloth, a steel grip clamps around my wrist, and I’m hauled toward his hard chest.

I can’t see a thing with the blindfold, but all my other senses are heightened. I can feel every one of his breaths that fans my face, the heavy beats of his heart beneath my hands, and the chill of the night air licking my neck.

Goosebumps erupt over my skin, and I shiver when the lightest touch of his lips brushes against my ear. “Are you going to be a good girl and walk with your hands at your sides, or will I need to carry you?” His voice is filled with danger, but with an edge like he’s hoping for the latter so that I can be his own rag doll for the rest of the night.

“Tell me where we’re going first.”

He pulls back as his chest beneath my hands vibrates with his silent laugh. “The shed. Obviously. Stop being difficult.”

“I’m being difficult?” I all but screech. “You took me to—excuse my language—the middle of butt-fuck nowhere, and then you blindfold me and drag me to some shady barn thing?”

He nudges my side. “Have I ever done you wrong?”

I throw my arms up. “Yes. Many times.”

“Like when?” The way he says it is like I’ve accused him of committing treason.

And they say women are dramatic.

“Let’s see. How about that time you wanted to explore a lake, and it turned out to be a landmine?” I put my hands on my hips.

“It was decommissioned,” he counters.

I huff. “Or when you took me to see ‘some cool art,’ and then we had to run from the cops because you were caught tagging?”

“Wasn’t a lie. The art was cool.” I can just imagine him cocking his chin up with a prickly grin.