The Darkest Torment. Gena Showalter

she trembled, she did her best to settle comfortably against the seat. And, even more difficult, she kept her lips pressed together for the remainder of the drive.

      Finally, the driver—a black-haired, silver-eyed beauty—parked at a busy curb. She turned to wink at Katarina. “You’re in good hands. Promise.”

      The sadness! Katarina wanted to die. The sooner the better. All of her loved ones were dead. Midnight was dead, and not just because of the poison. Her brother hadn’t administered a strong enough dose, had merely caused Midnight’s organs to begin to shut down. Her precious dog had been in pain, so much pain, with no hope of recovery, the vet had told her. She’d had to put a dog in the prime of his life to sleep, holding on to his paw as he slipped away.

      “What part of not another word out of you did you not understand, Cameo?” Baden asked. “The bride looks ready to scoop out her internal organs and set them ablaze.”

      He acted as if the woman’s voice was the source of the problem. Which was impossible...yes?

      Baden opened a door and wrapped an arm around Katarina’s waist, his gaze locking with hers. “If you run, I’ll catch you. If you scream, I’ll make you wish you’d died inside the chapel.”

      She shuddered. If ever a man would do as promised—and enjoy it—it was this one.

      “I won’t run,” she croaked. “Won’t scream.”

      As he “helped” her from the car, a barbed lump grew in her throat. She studied her new surroundings, memorizing details for police. Myriad flower boxes bloomed with begonias and lined the road’s median, separating the traffic running north and south. The design of buildings varied, everything from medieval Gothic to box-shaped chrome and glass.

      She’d seen very little of Manhattan, having spent most of her time confined inside Alek’s country estate, and had no idea where she was.

      Baden ushered her toward the only brownstone with copper-framed windows. A doorman let them pass a set of large glass doors without impediment, saying, “Congratulations on your nuptials, sir.”

      Baden ignored him. Katarina silently begged for help.

      When the man merely smiled blankly at her, her shoulders hunched with disappointment.

      People sucked. Her dogs would have helped her without hesitation.

      Summer warmth gave way to cool air-conditioning. Once again she searched her surroundings. The ornate interior boasted a colorful ceiling mural and four three-tiered chandeliers that dripped with thousands of crystal teardrops. To the left was a beautiful winding staircase, hand-carved cherubs perched along the railing. To the right, multiple sitting areas delimited a massive unlit hearth.

      The people milling about the lobby stared with open curiosity at the leather-clad warrior and the gaudy bride, but only for a second, not wanting to appear rude.

      Can’t scream, can’t scream, really can’t scream.

      “You can be reasonable,” Baden said as the elevator doors closed, sealing them inside the small cart. Alone. “I’m impressed.”

      His condescension irked. Death would be a small price to pay for standing up to such a brute. “You can be an asshole. I’m not impressed.”

      “You have spirit.” He used a key card and punched a button for the top floor. The key card must have programmed the elevator to continue ascending, despite anyone waiting for a ride on any of the other floors, because they never stopped to acquire new passengers. “Your problem is you can’t back up your spirit with brute strength.”

      The comment only irked her further.

      Be strong, Katarina. Her mother’s final words echoed in her mind. Without strength, we have nothing...we are nothing.

      I’m someone!

      “I suggest you be careful when dealing with one such as me,” Baden added. “I’m a monster.”

      “The boogeyman,” she whispered. The only real emotion he’d displayed was delight, and all because men were in pieces around him. He was the kind of person who cheered and placed bets as dogs fought to the death.

      Keep his mind on his goal. “What’s so special about the coin you’re looking for?”

      “I don’t know.”

      Her brow creased with confusion. Had she mistranslated his words? “You don’t know?”

      “No.”

      And yet, he’d killed dozens of people to obtain the thing. He even planned to dismember Alek. “Explain. Please.”

      Ding. He led her down a hall, past a door and into a spacious room with gleaming dark wood floors draped with Tibetan rugs. Every piece of furniture was antique, boasting a unique animal carving: a swan, an elephant, even a winged lion. The fabric bordering the large rounded windows matched the rugs, the sides pulled back to reveal elaborate stained glass.

      “Sit.” He gave her a gentle push, and yet she stumbled onto the couch, plopping onto the comfortable cushions. “Stay.”

      Two commands she’d often given her dogs. Her fists clenched around her gown’s colossal skirt, wrinkling the material. She was the trainer, not the other way around.

      When an aggressive canine was sent to her for taming, she would introduce herself slowly, often pretending she was alone as she puttered around in places he could watch her without feeling as though she encroached on his space. What she didn’t do was allow him to scare her away. He would only lash out more aggressively the next time she appeared.

      Baden wasn’t a dog, but he was certainly feral. The same principle applied. So, she stood.

      He said nothing as she increased the distance between them. She pretended to scrutinize lamps, vases and the portraits on the wall, each a different type of flower.

      “You appear calm and at ease, and yet I can sense your terror.” He leaned against the edge of the desk and crossed his arms over his chest.

      Surviving a feral, rule one: Never show fear.

      Basically, fake it till you make it.

      Two: Use a soft but assertive tone. Anything else could rouse hostility.

      Three: Remember you get what you reinforce, not necessarily what you expect.

      In this case, she ignored number four: Place the dog’s needs first.

      And skipped to number five: Find out what will work best with each individual dog.

      “How do you sense my terror?” she asked, her tone soft but confident. “I have no tells.”

      His raspy chuckle held a note of self-deprecation. “Trust me. You have tells. My more beastly qualities enjoy them.”

      “Do your more beastly qualities think I should thank you for kidnapping me?”

      “Yes. I did you a favor, nevesta. Consider this a holiday from the terrible life awaiting you.”

      “You know nothing about my life. Or me!”

      He scoffed, his disgust back in full force. “You are married to Aleksander Ciernik. I can guess.”

      Don’t know this man, don’t like him. His opinion doesn’t matter. But...

      What would he do if she told him about the dogs? Would he understand her plight? Help her? Or would he condemn her?

      Will never tell him! He was a killer, as bad as Alek—maybe worse—and he might hunt down her babies just to spite her.

      “Your greed will bring you nothing but pain,” he said.

      She blinked at him. “Greed?”

      “You covet your husband’s money and power.”

      Her fingers curled into her palms, her nails cutting.