Page 7 of Bound in Possession

Seriously, what is wrong with these men?

First of all, I don’t know this man.

Although my sisters and I attend galas and balls with my father and many people in a single night, I am convinced I have never seen him in my life. Because as much as I hate to admit it, he is unforgettable. His face. And body. He is tall, broad-shouldered, and has dark blond hair and icy, gray-blue eyes.

If we were at a normal gala, I would probably be fawning over him.

There is no way I'd forget a man like that.

The other man—the one currently glaring and threatening us, who looks vaguely familiar but whose name I also don't know—called my captor Maksim.

So that is the single, solitary fact I know about him.

How can a total stranger claim I belong to him?

From the corner of my eyes, I see the other guy storm off, his face a mask of rage and vengeance. But I’m not letting this slide.

Hearing Maksim say that like I am a newly acquired piece of real estate makes my blood boil. I have seen this exact script play out way too many times in my life. I watched it with my sisters' arranged marriages, and I’ve seen it in every single transaction my father ever conducted. These men and their fragile, towering egos. They honestly believe a high bid gives them the right to own a woman's body and soul.

Before he can realize what I am doing, I place my palms flat against his very muscled chest and push with everything I have, wrenching myself out of his grip. Because I was so deceptively soft just a second ago, it take him completely by surprise. His heavy arms fall away from me before he can tighten his hold.

His eyes narrow into dangerous slits as he glares down at me. "What do you think you are doing?" he demands over the noise.

All around us, the chaos is still absolute. Overpriced crystal is shattering, bullets are ruining the upholstery, and smoke is filling the air, but the indignation in my chest burns much hotter than the danger.

I smooth down the front of my gown, looking up at him with a sharp, mocking smile. "I am deeply flattered by the grand gesture, truly," I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm despite the noise. "But I am not your property, and I never will be."

He steps toward me, his face tight with frustration as he gestures to the literal warzone around us. "Look around you. Do you honestly think this is the best place to have this conversation?"

"Oh, I apologize," I reply, crossing my arms. "Should we schedule a more convenient time to discuss my lack of availability?"

I open my mouth to add another jab, but a deafening, explosive bang echoes right next to us. Someone screams in pure agony, and the crowd panics even more, creating a stampede of desperate people rushing for the exits.

Out of nowhere, a heavy body running past shoves me hard from behind. I lose my footing entirely. I go flying sideways, crashing violently against a shattered glass table.

A sharp, blinding line of pain rips through my side as the broken glass cuts straight through the fabric of my dress and slices into my ribs. I gasp, the breath completely knocked out of my lungs as hot blood begins to soak into the silk of my gown.

Despite the agony blooming in my side, I force myself to stand my ground. I press a hand to my bleeding ribs, tilting my chin up to look him dead in the eye.

"I am not leaving with you," I say, keeping my voice as steady and cold as possible. "Whatever exorbitant amount you just paid for me, I suggest you go get a refund. I am not for sale."

He looks down at me, his icy gray-blue eyes completely devoid of warmth. "Tell that to your father, princess."

Before I can even process the remark, his gaze drops to the crimson stain rapidly spreading across the silk of my gown. His jaw tightens. Losing whatever sliver of patience he had left, he steps forward, grabs me, and effortlessly lifts me right over his broad shoulder. He positions me with a practiced care, ensuring his grip keeps any direct pressure away from my wounded ribs.

"Put me down!" I demand, pounding my fists against his solid back.

I fight him with everything I have left, despite the pain, kicking my legs as he carries me straight through the screaming violence of the room. He completely ignores my protests, treating my struggles as nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

With his free hand, Maksim raises his weapon. He moves with terrifying grace, killing several men on the way out with brutal efficiency. Every shot he fires is precise, clearing a path through the smoke and attackers without a single shred of hesitation. It is horrifying to watch, a masterclass in underworld execution.

As we burst out of the shattered exit doors and into the cool night air, I catch a glimpse of his right-hand man, Dmitri, falling into step right behind us to cover our retreat.

We reach a waiting black luxury sedan. The doors fly open, and Maksim forces both of us inside, shielding me with his own body as the car accelerates into the dark, escaping the chaos behind us.

The tires screech against the pavement as the sedan breaks away from the compound, the gunfire finally fading into the background. Maksim drops me onto the leather backseat, immediately shifting to look out the rear window. In the front, a stoic driver slams his foot on the gas, keeping his eyes glued to the road, while Dmitri rides shotgun, his weapon drawn and his eyes scanning the perimeter.

I press my hand hard against my ribs, wincing as the sharp pain flares up again. The adrenaline is the only thing keeping me from fainting, but it also fuels my mounting rage.