Read Punished by the Dictator's Daughter (The Initiation 3, Book 3) for Free Online Page A

he does have a truck. A Hungarian
model that must have been twenty years old. Mansk’s family has
brought the bare minimum with them. A battered suitcase for each
person – needful things for the journey, gold and whatever foreign
money they have managed to come up with.
    I have confirmed the ten million with Max,
and he has agreed.
    Sensing my consternation, he says, “Gina, you
did the right thing for all of us. Everyone says Aimelie wasn’t
going to let us go. My father would never risk an international
incident . . . especially the uncomfortable revelations that would
come with it.”
    “You mean he would rather let you die?” I am
incredulous.
    In the darkness, his profile is troubled. “I
don’t know, Gina. Sometimes I don’t know. You have no idea what it
is like growing up in that family. I’m the eldest son. In most
families, I would have been the favored one. But no. No one ever
gave me the time of day, especially when those three were
around.”
    I know he means Alice and the twins.
Normally, I would say something comforting and reassuring, even
though it is probably meaningless. But today, I don’t. Max’s family
is just too strange for me to comprehend.
    I reach out for his hand to clasp it. This
gesture is not lost on Greg, who says nothing.
    We finally stop by the side of the road, near
another farmhouse. Here, some men are loading large crates onto a
large truck. They have no benefit of a forklift, but have managed
to rig some sort of rudimentary pulley system. The crates contain
some sort of farm machinery, as far as I can see.
    Everyone climbs out of our truck, and we
follow suit.
    “Two people in one crate,” Mansk says. “No
talking now.”
    Oh, I see.
    We get onto the truck, climbing two by two
into several empty crates which have been conveniently placed on
top. I get into one together with Max, yet another gesture not lost
on Greg. It isn’t as if I want to exclude Greg for any reason. It
just seems like the natural thing to do to get into a crate with my
boyfriend. And besides, I wasn’t thinking about it – at least not
in any conscious way.
    The crates are sealed, hammered shut. We are
completely in the dark. Max and I cling to each other – our sweaty
hands gripping one another’s in a tight clutch that has the air of
finality in it. We are only able to guess at what is happening
around us from the sounds. We gather that all the crates are
finally on the truck – the ones containing people intermingling
with the ones containing machinery.
    And then we are off again, the truck rumbling
into motion. The crates bump and jostle each other on the uneven
road. Our bones are jarred and our muscles ache. After about an
hour, we arrive at some sort of train station, which I can decipher
once again from the shrieks and whistles and general activity
outside. Our crates are offloaded and loaded onto a waiting
carriage. I can smell sawdust and steam around us.
    More time elapses. My head is a powder keg
waiting to explode, and my heart has exhausted its percussive
power. Any time now, I expect the shouts of guards outside, the
metallic cocking of rifles pointing at our car. Everyone at the
castle must have surely realized we have gone, and that Mansk is
the perpetrator.
    Max grips me so hard that my palms feel
flattened. I think he is every bit as afraid as I am.
    But miracle of miracles. There’s the blare of
a whistle, and the train’s wheels start to churn – axles and gears
grinding in a familiar rotational interplay that floods me with
relief.
    And we are off! Going to Hungary on a cargo
train filled with farm produce. Ursk maintains minimal trade ties
with some of its neighbors, against the wrath of Uncle Sam. But we
are very far from America in this part of the world, and not
everyone thinks in the terms of sanctions against despotic
dictators. With every mile the train traverses out of this
terrifying nation, my chest grows a little lighter.
    And then it happens.
    With a massive