Chapter Twenty-Three
Rurik
Western Carpathian Mountains, Romania
Crammed in the rear seat of the Markarovs’ pickup truck, Rurik eyed two of his captors, Viktor and Anatoly, who wedged him in from either side. The truck’s cab was wide, but not wide enough for iron-pumping strongmen. Their shoulders fought for space, elbows dug into Rurik’s ribs, and their hips pressed closer than he wanted any man’s to be.
Dmitry wrestled with the steering wheel, taking turns too fast, and mashing Rurik between the two Markarovs. In the passenger seat, the vinyl squeaked every time Pavel shifted positions or cracked his neck. He kept fidgeting, nervous as a high flyer without a net. Something ate at him, and his gaze never left the dark Romanian road ahead.
In contrast to their glittery strongmen costu
