Page 25 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

“Yes, if he’s lucky.”

She studies me. “You hate when they call me that.”

“I hate incompetence.”

A tiny smile cuts across her mouth, and there’s nothing soft in it. “No, you hate hearing your own paperwork with a pulse attached.”

I say nothing.

Cara taps the folder once. “You brought me here, put my name on a table, and told me I can be claimed, held, married, traded, used, or protected. Then your boy says the nasty part out loud, and suddenly, everyone remembers manners.”

“So which is it, Dmitri?” Cara asks. “Am I a woman when you say it and an authorized transfer when he does?”

I look at the folder instead of her face.

“You will be under my custody,” I say. “That means every guard, driver, doctor, cook, clerk, and guest in the estate will know whose permission matters before they come near you.”

Her eyes stay on mine. “That sounds a lot like belonging.”

“For now, yes.” I move toward the door and open it before she can see too much on my face. Nikolai and Herman wait outside, and both straighten when I step into the hall.

“To the car,” I say.

Nikolai moves first. Herman falls in on her other side. Cara sees the shape of the command and walks between them with her chin lifted.

“I don’t belong to you,” she says as we cross the hangar.

The wind hits us when the freight doors open, and she has to raise her voice to carry it. “Do you hear me, Dmitri? I don’t belong to you.”

“No.” I let her catch the word before I look back. “Until Patrick is found, every man who thinks you’re claimable goes through me.”

She looks at me, furious and shaken. My phone vibrates as we reach the car. Maksim. I read the message once.

Morozov channels are already asking whether the O’Connell woman has been claimed.

Cara watches my face. “What?”

I pocket the phone and open the car door for her.

“Get in,” I say. “They’ve opened the bidding.”

6

CARA

The bidding has started.

That’s the kind of thing men like Dmitri say when they want panic to put on manners. The words herd me into the car, settle coldly under my ribs, and ruin any chance I had of pretending this is only Patrick being Patrick. My choices narrow to leather seat, armed men, and the Russian winter glaring through tinted glass. A woman can build many dreams from less if all of them involve kidnapping charges and frostbite.

Dmitri shuts the door after me.

The journey becomes a replay. He takes the front passenger seat, angled enough to see me in the mirror. Nikolai sits on my left, Herman on my right, and neither man touches me.

The car leaves the hangar and turns onto a service road. Behind us, the airport shrinks into strips of white light, metal fencing, and freight buildings. Black cars move around us with the neat spacing of a funeral procession planned by men who turn panic into a schedule. Ahead, Moscow waits under a bruised sky.

I keep my hands folded in my lap. Any movement might become a tremor, and I can’t afford that. Shaking is data. Men collect data.

“Where are we going?” I ask.