Page 8 of Captive

All I could do was shake my head. He stood over my car as I struggled to climb inside, every inch of my body still shaking. When I drove away, I could tell he was watching to ensure I got out of the parking lot safely.

As I turned onto the main road, I slumped against the steering wheel. Something was going on. Something deadly.

And there was no doubt that whoever Professor Nikolai Lenkov was, it had little to do with him being a professor of Russian Studies. The man was a killer.

CHAPTER 3

Nikolai

Goddamn it.

I roared as soon as I slammed the front door to my house, the bellowing sounds echoing in my ears. I’d suspected someone had been following me for a few days, although there’d been no outward signs, no attempt at contacting me.

Then the attack.

I had no doubt what they’d planned to do with Chloe. She’d made the mistake of coming into my past, a world of darkness and violence. A world where she could end up as collateral damage. I refused to allow that to happen.

After taking a deep breath, I moved into the den, snapping on a single light then moving quickly to the corner bar. Before grabbing a glass, I glanced down at my hand. It would be difficult to explain the ugly bruises and scratches. Thank fucking God there was only one more day of school left. I didn’t need toexplain myself to a bunch of stuffed shirts who’d rallied against hiring me in the first place.

After pouring a hefty amount of bourbon and taking a long swig, I headed toward my desk, pressing the hidden button underneath. The slight sound the bookcase made as it swung outward gave me pause as well as provided ugly memories from the past.

A past I’d never wanted to think about or revisit again. While I’d planned for an eventual attack given my training and nature, several peaceful years had gone by giving me hope that my name and position had been all but forgotten.

It was obvious I was wrong.

The man who’d called himself my father had changed my name, Nikolai Lenkov no longer existing. The boy from the street might have well had died in front of the bakery twenty years before. I’d asked only after several years why he’d chosen the name he had. Sacha was of French origin, the country he loved even more than Russia, the meaning a defending warrior. He’d insisted that I would become the ruthless warrior he’d promised from the very first day.

And that had occurred, but not without extreme trials and brutal pain in order to toughen me up.

“Sacha. Come here, my son. It’s time for you to learn a valuable lesson.”

I walked closer to the man I’d called my father, easing onto the stool beside him. “Yes, Father?”

“It would seem you’ve become disinterested in your classes.”

“Only history, Father.”

He took a deep breath as he contemplated my answer. “Russian history is very important. You must understand the beginning of the Bratva in order for you to become a leader.”

“But Michail is the next leader.”

The single look he gave me was one of disappointment. I lowered my head out of deference.

“You are a becoming a warrior as well as a man. You will be the greatest Pakhan that Russia has ever seen. However, you still need to learn lessons in order to get there, including understanding history.”

“Yes, Father. I will do better.”

“Yes, you will. And in order to ensure that you do, you need to embrace the pain that is often necessary in order to become a great leader.”

I hated his punishments, some leaving me in significant agony for days. I worked very hard never to disappoint him. “Yes, Father.”

As he pulled a knife from his pocket, I winced. “Hold out your hand.”

The memory was bittersweet. I flexed the same hand that I’d used to crush the nose of my enemy, turning it over in order to see the scar that had been left from that particular punishment. I’d deserved it by all rights, school as important as anything else he’d taught me.

I’d excelled in school after that, never providing another reason for him to punish me. However, for my loyalty, I’d paid a significant price.

One that had forced me to leave my home.