4

Oh fuck. Ilya struggled against Bryant's hold but he was being gripped so tightly, it felt as if no blood was flowing down his arm. Don't put me in the box. Repeating those words in his head would make no difference to what was going to happen, but Ilya still did it. Saying them out loud would ensure that was where he ended up. But a little mind-bending might work.

Oh God, I'm so stupid.

Bryant was furious. "If you don't stop struggling, you'll go in the box wearing that cock cage,"

he hissed in Ilya's ear.

The box would be the end of his chance tonight. He wasn't even going to think about the cock cage comment. But when Bryant found the necklace in his pocket, Ilya would be in even deeper shit.

He spotted a couple of guests coming towards them in the corridor and said loudly, "Don't want to go bed yet. Want to dance. Don't be mean. Let me dance at my sister's wedding."

The guests smiled as they approached.

"Maybe I need to lie down first."

Ilya lurched toward the stairs, away from the route to the cellar and the box, and to his astonishment, Bryant ended up hauling him the way he wanted to go. So mind-bending did work!

"Oh dear. Too much to drink?"

the woman asked.

"No."

Ilya hiccupped as Bryant said, "Yes."

Ilya was roughly pulled up the stairs and along the corridor. Now no one was watching, Bryant clipped him hard around the head. "You little bastard."

That hurt! When they reached Ilya's room, Bryant threw him inside. Ilya hit the floor and banged his elbow. "Ouch!"

As Bryant stamped towards him, Ilya scuttled backwards on his hands and feet.

"You let me down. Made me look like a fool. Laughing and smiling with that man. You think you're so clever."

"I'm sorry."

He wasn't but… "I was only being polite." Which man? Ilya hoped he meant the guy he was sitting next to for the meal and not the thief because that guy was his way out. That guy was also gorgeous. Dark hair with dark lashes fringing blue eyes, an intense gaze and a smile that could have taken Ilya out at the knees if he'd dare let it.

"Get up! Take off your jacket and waistcoat."

Ilya did as he was told. The necklace was in the inside pocket of his tails so it was safer on the chair than on his back. He swayed a little as if he were drunk, though that wasn't the case. But he was scared. Bryant had a wild look in his eyes and he had been drinking.

"Lie face down on the bed, feet on the floor, hands on your head. And don't move them."

"Why?"

"Because you need to be taught a lesson."

Bryant unthreaded his belt from his trousers, then snapped it in the air.

Ilya flinched.

"Do as you're fucking told!"

Ilya lay down. He ran the risk of worse happening if he resisted, so he'd just have to take it. It wouldn't be the first time Bryant had used the belt on him.

He could hear the heavy beat of music from the ballroom below. If he screamed, no one would even notice. I don't want to make a sound. I don't want to give him the satisfaction. He cried out at the first strike. Fuck!

"You didn't behave."

Flick. "You were flirting with the groom's brother!" Smack. "You didn't stay with Emilia." Snap. "You talked to a male guest."

He should have known that Bryant wouldn't take his eyes off him. Okay, maybe Ilya had flirted a little with Robert, but not in any overt way, merely to make him laugh, to prove to himself that he wasn't lost, he was still there. But it was the elegant guy in the expensive suit that had captured— Ahhh!

Ilya gasped and pressed his face harder into the bed. Every time he thought that would be the last strike, it wasn't. If Bryant didn't stop soon, Ilya wouldn't be able to run away because he wouldn't be able to fucking move. He rolled over hoping to stop him, but the next strike caught him across his chest. Shit!

"Lie still!"

"Leave me alone. You've hit me enough."

"I say when it's enough."

Ilya found the strength from somewhere to get himself off the bed. He backed away, wracked with pain, unsteady on his feet, and fell into a side table, sending himself and everything on top crashing to the floor. Bryant was still lashing out with his belt, snapping it so it bit at him like a cobra. By some miracle, Ilya managed to catch hold of it and yanked as hard as he could. Bryant staggered, snagged his foot on something that had fallen from the table, and as he tripped, he launched himself at Ilya. Ilya felt something hard under his hand, wrapped his fingers around it and slammed it onto the guy's head. Bryant slumped half on top of him and didn't move.

For a moment, Ilya couldn't move either, couldn't even breathe. What have I done? Then he sucked in a small amount of air, desperate to get from underneath Bryant before he woke. It was a struggle to squirm free. Ilya dropped the mouse he'd hit him with when he realised he was still holding it, a gift cast in bronze from his father.

Felled by a mouse.

There was some justice in that. Ilya lay trembling on his back, panting noisily. He was too shocked to get up and run. Bryant wasn't making a sound. A trickle of blood pooled on the wooden floor under his head and Ilya let out a shaky groan. I fucking hate you, but please don't be dead.

He put his hand on Bryant's neck and couldn't feel a pulse. Oh God. Ohgodohgodohgod. He tried again. This time he felt a beat, faint but there. Except what was going to happen when Bryant came round? He'll fucking kill me. Ilya could feel panic rising and took a deep breath.

Do something!

He grabbed the belt, fastened it around Bryant's wrists and realised that wasn't going to achieve anything. He took off Bryant's tie, attached it to the belt and threaded it around a leg of the wardrobe so Bryant was tied to it. Was that any better? I don't fucking know! Shit! Shit! He couldn't think straight. His hands were shaking and he could feel himself beginning to fall apart.

Ilya used his own tie to gag Bryant, then pulled himself up to get more ties out of his wardrobe. All bought especially for him for dinner with his father and stepmother. He gave a choked laugh as he fastened them as tightly as he could around Bryant's legs and arms, then tried to hogtie him. He wasn't sure how long any of this would hold him, or if he'd be held at all. Or even if I need to if he's dead or dying.

Now he had to be quick. He fled to the bathroom, broke a blade out of his disposable razor, and took off his shirt. Holding his arm over the sink, he felt for the scar line where the tracker had been implanted. No time to hesitate. He firmly pulled it down his skin, hissing at the pain, before biting his lip, then fumbled in the cut for the circular disk.

Oh my God! I can't… I can't… He was shocked when he held it in his fingers. Ilya clamped his shirt to his arm to try and stop the bleeding, then washed the blood out of the sink. This was all being done in a rush and he'd not planned it like this but now he had no choice. He waited as long as he dared for the blood to stop flowing, then wrapped a bandage around his arm, before washing his hands. By the time he'd done, blood had already started to seep through.

He dumped the bloody shirt into the bottom of his laundry basket and changed into a long-sleeved black t-shirt, dark jeans and his boots. He put the tracker in his pocket, then picked up his coat and the small rucksack he'd already packed and hidden in a stack of towels, before he went back into the bedroom. Bryant hadn't moved. Ilya thought about checking his pulse again but what difference would it make to his plans if he was dead? He didn't go near him.

At the door, he remembered the necklace and let out a quiet groan as he went back to get it. He was so hyper he couldn't breathe properly. In a moment or two the pain would kick in and he needed to get going before that happened. He couldn't carry the rucksack on his back or his shoulder, it hurt too much, so he kept it in his hand, hidden by his coat, and slipped out of the bedroom, turning off the light.

His father and stepmother's bedroom lay at the other end of the house, but he made it there without being spotted and went straight to the safe in the walk-in wardrobe.

If his father had changed the combination…but he hadn't.

If he'd moved Ilya's passports…but he hadn't.

Ilya grabbed his British and Russian passports from the pile and was about to close the door when he thought again. There were bundles of cash just sitting there… Pounds, euros, dollars. He pushed as much as he could into his rucksack.

Now all he had to do was get out of the house, cross the fields and get to the church without being seen. Not easy, and made more difficult because he hurt. Really hurt. Bloody Bryant. It was cold outside and Ilya struggled into his coat. His back was burning and his arm felt wrong and heavy, but even if it was bleeding, he couldn't hang around to sort it out.

The moment he stepped outside, he shivered. He hadn't used to feel the cold, even in St Petersburg, but since he'd been brought back here, he felt as if he'd arrived into a different sort of winter, one that froze his thoughts and numbed his senses. Now he had the chance to escape into spring.

He crept into the field of parked cars and chose one at random to leave the tracker. A Land Rover Discovery. He dropped it into the cowl where the windscreen wipers lay, then exited the field and slipped into the woods. If he'd been spotted, there was nothing he could do. At least there was enough moonlight that he could see where he was going, though that meant he could be seen too.

Adrenaline had carried him to this point, but now he began to falter. He hurt so much that he found it difficult to move at any speed, and the cold was seeping into every cell of his body. What if he'd killed Bryant? Would his father call the police or just find a way to dispose of Bryant's body and use what had happened as a way to control him? You want to maintain that you're gay or go to prison for murder? Your choice. Ilya groaned. Bryant must have family and friends, though he'd never mentioned anyone.

He let out a quiet whimper. The guy wasn't dead. He'd be fine. Enraged, but fine. All Ilya had to do was get well away from here, and to do that he had to keep putting one foot in front of the other and not think about how much pain he was in. The man who'd stolen Svetlana's necklace would meet him. Ilya was less sure whether he'd give him a lift once he'd handed over the jewellery, so he had to make sure that happened.

By the time he'd crossed a field of winter wheat and reached the village church, he was completely exhausted. His left hand was wet with blood, so he needed to change the bandage. He'd anticipated he might continue to bleed, so he'd packed another dressing. The church clock said it was just after nine, so he had time to sort himself out.

Ilya sat on the bench under the lychgate and struggled out of his coat and T-shirt, biting his lip against the pain. He shivered in the cold air and even shivering bloody hurt. Once he'd cleaned himself up as best he could, he wrapped another bandage tightly around his arm.

The blood-stained T-shirt and sodden bandage went under the wooden seat and he pulled another T-shirt from his bag. Not long sleeved, but it didn't matter. Getting dressed again had him crying out with pain. Putting his coat back on was agony. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment or two. Take a breath. You did it. You're okay. Almost.

He sat on the seat with his rucksack on his lap and leaned forward to rest his head on it. Quite ironic to be sitting in a place that had been used in the past to shelter coffins until the priest arrived to conduct the funeral. Ilya felt as if he was waiting for his own funeral.

What the fuck am I going to do if he comes and won't take me?

What the fuck am I going to do if he doesn't come?

What if my father is the one who turns up?

Or the police?

He could feel tears sliding down his face. Crying wasn't going to help. Self-pity annoyed him but didn't stop him weeping. Maybe he ought to keep the necklace and get moving. He could find somewhere to sell it—eventually. Some shady pawnbroker. It had to be worth a fair amount. It was a high quality diamond and jewellery was his speciality. Ilya had plenty of cash to buy a train ticket to London, well…to anywhere in the UK, but it was almost impossible to move unseen in this country. There was CCTV everywhere.

If he used either passport, it might alert the authorities. He couldn't deposit large sums of money into a bank account without raising suspicions, plus he'd have to use his British passport as ID to set up an account. Could he even do that with no address? Probably not. Paying with cash was fine for some things, but hotels wanted credit cards.

His brain raced and came up with nothing helpful or even hopeful.

I am fucked.

Ilya had a couple of friends he still kept in touch with from his days at boarding school in Leicestershire, and friends in St Petersburg, but his phone had been destroyed in front of him the day he arrived back in the UK and he wasn't sure he could remember the numbers of his English friends. The only person who could help was the good-looking diamond thief who was already pissed off with him.

So I'm really fucked.