Page 3 of Ripping the Odds

“You’ll find out soon enough. Let’s begin.”

Before I had the opportunity to ask another question, a fist plunged into my stomach, stealing the breath from my lungs. Three men, besides the asshole I pegged as the leader, surrounded me, hitting every inch of my body in rapid succession. I lost track of how many blows I took, but there was one thing for certain and two things for sure…I wouldn’t survive much longer.

When my legs eventually gave out, one of his men released the ropes holding me in place. With no strength left to break my fall, gravity took over. My body crumbled into a heap, and my head slammed into the unforgiving concrete floor. A wave of dizziness overcame me as the other two men dragged me to a chair. They didn’t even bother tying me down. What was the point? It wasn’t like I’d get very far even if I could run.

My captor stood with his arms crossed over his chest while one of his goons landed a backhand across my left cheek that felt like the burn of a thousand bee stings.

“Again,” he smiled.

The next two hurt just as badly, but it was the last one that caused damage. A line of blood slowly trickled down the side of my face. At some point during my torture, I lost consciousness, but not before I discovered who was responsible for my kidnapping. Machail Bolotov, a name I’d heard before, though for the life of me, I couldn’t remember where.

The second time I woke up, my body was stuffed inside of a cage that was barely big enough to hold a large dog. I couldn’t move––which, in hindsight––was probably a blessing. The blows I’d taken to my ribs ensured even the shallowest of breaths was filled with excruciating pain. So much so, I blacked out again.

There was no way of telling how long I had been held. It could have been hours or days. Either way, it didn’t take a genius to figure out I was in serious trouble.

Through each layer of hell, I pictured Zak’s handsome face. Imagining his steel-blue eyes against the backdrop of sleek coal-black hair was my only solace, the one thing keeping me from breaking apart at the seams.

Most people thought he was indifferent, cold even, but with me he was neither of those. His patience and kindness fueled my infatuation, which had grown to embarrassing heights in the months since I began working at his casino. The worst part was knowing he was so far out of my reach he was playing in his own league. Yet my attraction didn’t fade, not even a little. I’d fallen head over heels for Zakhar Vlaschenko, and my foolish love was going to cost me my life.

When my eyes opened again, I wished they hadn’t. My limbs were bound to a metal chair, and I was sitting in the center of a large room surrounded by shipping crates which were stacked five high in neat rows. All too soon my torment resumed, worse than before. My screams were met with cruel laughter as knives sliced through my abused flesh like hot coals, making me pray for a death… a death which never came.

Nausea swirled low in my belly, and my head spun wildly. It was everything I could do to keep myself from puking or passing out, neither of which would’ve been good. I’d learned that lesson the hard way. Inhaling slowly through my nose, I fought through the overwhelming agony, trying to stay conscious. Without warning, a hand speared into my hair, fisting the strands at the root, before yanking my head back. My mouth was so dry from lack of water I couldn’t even cry out in pain.

“It’s almost time, cyka.”

It was the last thing I heard Bolotov say before a meaty fist collided with the side of my face.

I was dreaming again. Well, fantasizing would be more accurate. It happened ever since the first time I worked late in the office with my boss. I knew it wasn’t real because I wasn’t comfortable enough in my own skin to openly flirt with any man. Boldness was not my strength.

“That’ll be all for the night, Ms. Turner,” Zak dismissed me once I placed his evening coffee on the desk. He didn’t bother looking up from his computer screen.

“Are you sure? I don’t mind staying longer in case you need something else.”

“If you don’t leave now, you’ll find out exactly what it is I need. And I’m not certain you’re ready for what that entails.”

“What if I am, though? Ready, that is.”

He stood quickly, knocking me off balance. Teetering on the edge of my heels, the momentum carried me backward. Just when I thought I’d embarrass myself by falling flat on my ass, Zak grabbed me around the waist, yanking me into his rock-hard chest.

“Careful, moya koroleva.”

Rarely did I hear him speak Russian. A phrase here or there which elicited the same reaction each time. Goosebumps rolled down my spine in waves while a delicious tingling sensation sparked between my thighs.

I closed my eyes, swallowing thickly. “Or what?”

“This.” His lips were on mine, gentle at first, more demanding the longer I denied him. “Open, Pru.”

As soon as I complied, his tongue surged into my mouth, tangling with mine. He tasted like mint mixed with cloves from his earlier cigar. It was an incredibly sexy combination. My hands circled his neck, spearing through the long locks at the base of his skull. Silky smooth, exactly how I imagined his hair would feel through my fingers.

“Now be a good girl and tell me what you want.”

Before I could say anything, reality crashed in. Of course the obnoxious footsteps of those bastards would drag me out of a perfectly juicy dream straight back into their filthy nightmare. It was too much movement to only be the four men I’d initially dealt with. Keeping my breaths shallow, I didn’t want to alert anyone I was awake. They hadn’t put me back in the cage after the latest round of brutalization finished. Instead, they’d left me on display for the world to see. Maybe it was a show of strength, a warning, or a little of both? At least I was still fully clothed. For now.

Minutes bled into hours. Voices echoed around me. They were muffled at first until my brain became less foggy. Some of the conversations were in English. Those were the ones I paid attention to since my Russian was limited to the handful of words I’d learned being around Zak and his friends. From what I could gather, Bolotov’s men didn’t have complete faith in his plan. They had a hard time believing the head of a powerful Bratva family would risk his life for a “lowly assistant.” Considering the fact I was the lowly assistant they were speaking of, I hoped they were wrong.

I wasn’t ready to die—not yet and not like this—but I also didn’t want Zak to sacrifice himself for me. He meant too much to me, even though he would never know how I felt.

Zakhar