That voice. The rough timbre is familiar. There’s a memory of strong hands cradling my head, a gentle voice urging me to let go. I want to heed it, to sink back into the darkness where dreams don’t exist, but the shaking won’t let me. A warning pierces through the daze, and that too won’t let me go.
Yan.
It’s like a knife jabbed into my chest.
Gasping, I jerk into a sitting position.
“Easy.” The strong hands from my memory push me down.
My back hits a soft surface. I blink, battling to focus. The light makes the pain in my head worse.
“Drink this.”
A hand folds under my nape and lifts my head. My gaze collides with an ice-green one. Yan stares at me soberly.
He slips a pill onto my tongue and brings a bottle of water to my lips. “For the headache.”
I’m alive. “You didn’t kill me,” I mutter, battling to make sense of anything.
“I gave you a sedative.”
“But the dinner…”
He arches a brow, waiting for me to finish.
“The fancy crockery, the wine,” I continue hoarsely, “it was a last meal.”
“You needed to stock up on energy for the long trip.”
I lick my dry lips. “How long have I been out for?”
He checks his watch. “Twenty hours.”
I look around in panic. The room is small but modern. The white walls are adorned with framed photographs. They’re black-and-white landscapes. “Where am I?”
“Prague.”
I try to sit up again. “What?”
He prevents me. “You’re at my place. Keep still. The sedative was strong. It needs to work itself out of your system.”
“Ah.” Ilya’s bulky frame appears in the door. “You’re awake.”
Yan tenses. “Barely. Give her a moment.”
Ilya’s expression turns sour, but he leaves.
Yan puts the water on the nightstand. “You should drink as much as you can. Your body needs fluids. It’ll help with the pain. Much of the headache is due to dehydration.”
“You didn’t kill me,” I say again, posing the phrase as a question.
He smiles, but it’s not friendly.
Immense relief flows through me, and then the anger hits. “You let me believe you were going to kill me.”
He gives me a strange look. “I’d never kill you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“What don’t you get?”
“Why am I here?”
“Rest for now,” he says tersely. “We’ll talk about that later.”
“Why don’t you tell me now?”
He pats my hand that lies on top of the covers. “Get your strength back.” His voice drops an octave. “You’re going to need it.”
“Wait,” I say when he turns for the door, but he leaves and closes it behind him.
Rigid, I prick up my ears for the turn of a key. Nothing. He didn’t lock me in.
I take better stock of my surroundings. I’m lying in a big bed. The pillow smells of him, Yan. That deliciously airy, sensual scent. The sheets are silky and the blanket soft. High-thread Egyptian cotton. From the weight of the comforter resting on top of the blanket, it’s the goose feather variety. He has luxurious taste.
Sitting up, I lift the covers and peek underneath. I’m still wearing Yan’s shirt and nothing else. I throw the heavy comforter aside and swing my legs from the bed. The hardwood floor is warm. Under-floor heating. It seems like an excessive luxury. It’s only late summer.
I pad to the window and push away the curtain. We’re on the third floor. The ornate bars in front of the window prevent me from climbing through. The street below is quiet, and the building on the opposite side looks similar to this one. It’s a white block with square windows. They all have differently colored curtains.
Apartments. It’s a residential area.
I go back to inspecting the room. There’s a dresser and a closet. I feel the drawers. They’re locked. A door off to the side gives access to a bathroom. Like the room, it’s small, but the accessories are fancy. The shower is fitted with a high-tech nozzle. I shut the door, turn the lock, and open the tap. While the water runs warm, I pull off the shirt. It’s smelly. Wrinkling my nose, I dump it in the laundry basket.
Getting under the spray of water is like heaven. I make quick work of cleaning myself, using the forest-scented shower gel and shampoo. Grabbing a towel from the rack, I wrap it around my body. The fabric is warm. It must be a heating rack. I don’t need a brush for my short hair. My fingers work well enough.
I regard my face in the mirror. There are faint bruises in shades of yellow. They’ll be gone in a couple of days. My lip is healing well, too.
A new toothbrush still in its plastic wrapping lies on the basin. I use it to brush my teeth and look around for clothes, but there’s nothing.
The pill must be kicking in. The headache is almost gone and I feel more like a human being than I’ve felt during the past four days. It gives me hope. I’m alive. I have another shot at escaping.
Tiptoeing to the closed door, I put my ear against it. Male voices come from the other side, talking in Russian.
“We need to lure Dimitrov out of his fortress and away from his guards,” Yan says. “The order was clear. No other casualties.”
Ilya’s louder voice booms through the space. “Why can’t we just pop him in public?”
“The risks are too high,” a voice I don’t recognize says. “He’s always surrounded by his bodyguards.”
Ilya again. “What about when he’s at the casinos?”
“Same,” Yan replies. “We’ll never get a clear shot.”
“I say we use the fact that he’s an art collector,” the unfamiliar voice says. “We can fake an invitation to an event.”
“He’s too clever,” Yan says. “His personal buyers will check the authenticity of any event. Besides, his art dealings are shady. They mostly happen secretly behind closed doors.”
If they’re talking about who I think, they’re referring to Casmir Dimitrov, a powerful Balkan crime group leader who runs a chain of casinos as a guise for drug smuggling. He also
