Page 142 of Forbidden Forget-Me-Not

He locked the door after I walked out, then grabbed my arm.

“Where’s Goran,” I asked, as he unceremoniously pulled me along with him.

No answer.

“Where is he?” I repeated.

Still no answer.

He tightened his grip and yanked me forward, a silent warning to shut up.

“You are hurting me,” I snapped, trying to rip my arm free.

He jerked me to a halt.

“I wouldn’t try anything if I were you,” he warned.

My nostrils and lips pressed into a thin line as I met his hard stare. My temper sparked, but I could still feel where an officer had driven their knee into my back and yanked my shoulder so hard it throbbed. More than that, I remembered Goran’s face pressed into the dirt.

I swallowed the anger, refusing to make things worse for him.

“Tell me where you’re taking me.” My voice cooled as he started to march me forward again. “I have rights. I know I get a phone call.”

He ignored that, dragging me down the hallway, past men calling out crude jokes, past a woman sobbing into her hands, and past a row of rooms that looked like something from a medieval dungeon. They weren’t, but it felt close enough.

My stomach twisted, and I shivered, wanting to get the hell out of here as fast as possible.

Goran, where are you?

I couldn’t stop myself from scanning every face, every shadow, every door.

Nothing.

They had made sure he wasn’t anywhere near the path we were taking. Then a dark thought hit me. What if they hadn’t brought him here at all? What if they took him to a different jail? What if my father had arranged to have him picked up, shot, and tossed in a deep desert hole?

Fear sliced through my heart.

No. Stay calm.

We turned a corner and stopped in front of a plain door with a small pane of glass. The officer opened it, uncuffed me and shoved me inside, before slamming it shut behind me.

“Oww, you asshole,” I growled, rubbing at my wrists.

A single table dominated the room along with two metal chairs. It was clearly meant for lawyers to meet with their clients or for the officers to conduct interrogations. Deals were made, and people were cornered here.

And there he was in all his pristine glory.

Dimitri Mikhailov.

He sat there as if this were his office instead of a jailhouse. Grey suit, perfectly pressed, hands folded, and expression unreadable. He embodied power and wealth. A perfect example of a man who had never heard the word no, at least not without consequences following the word.

My chest ached as a memory of my father, standing by a fence and watching me ride, surfaced.

It was my sixteenth birthday, and he had just gifted me Atlas. I had run into the stall and hugged my horse before rushing back to throw my arms around my hero and tell him how much I loved him.

He had called me his princess. Back then, it had sounded like affection, not ownership.

I crushed the image before it could take hold, along with every good memory I had ever attached to him.