Kidnapped by the Russian mafia

CHAPTER ONE

THE BRUTE

AURORA

Life is full of unknowns.

At least, that was what I used to believe.

I used to think unknowns were exciting.

Adventures.

Blood-pumping experiences that made your heart race for all the right reasons.

Mountain climbing.

Bungee jumping.

Traveling somewhere without an itinerary and figuring everything out along the way.

I used to dream about those things.

About freedom.

About waking up one morning and deciding where I wanted to go without having to answer to anyone.

Sometimes, when I was younger, I even imagined the stupid fairy-tale version of it.

A handsome prince would arrive one day, sweep me away from the dreadful little life I had grown accustomed to, and show me the world.

Pathetic, maybe.

But everybody needs something to dream about.

Mine was freedom.

I just never imagined that when freedom finally disappeared completely, it would be because of a monster.

There is always a monster in the fairy tales.

The beast.

The villain.

The creature hidden in the dark castle while the princess waits for someone to save her.

Except fairy tales lie.

Sometimes the monster doesn’t turn into a handsome prince.

Sometimes he stays a monster.

Sometimes there isn’t a prince coming at all.

And sometimes the girl trapped in the tower eventually realizes that if she wants to survive, she might have to save herself.

I hadn’t reached that part yet.

Right now, I was still chained to a wall.

Literally.

The metal cuff around my ankle had rubbed my skin raw days ago.

At least I thought it had been days.

It could have been longer.

Time didn’t exist in this room.

There were no windows.

No clock.

No sunlight.

No moonlight.

Nothing that told me whether the world outside these walls was waking up or going to sleep.

There was only darkness.

At first, the darkness terrified me.

I couldn’t see my own hands.

Couldn’t tell where the walls ended.

Every sound became something waiting to hurt me.

Every scrape outside the door made my heart pound.

Every set of footsteps made me curl into myself because I didn’t know who was coming.

Eventually my eyes adjusted enough that I could make out shapes.

The mattress.

The bucket.

The chain.

The door.

That was my entire world.

A thin mattress lay directly on the concrete floor.

It had once been beige.

I think.

Now it was stained in places I refused to think about.

The smell was worse.

Sweat.

Mildew.

Urine.

Bleach that had failed to hide any of it.

The chain attached to my ankle was long enough for me to reach the mattress and the plastic bucket in the corner.

That was it.

That was how far my freedom went.

Mattress.

Bucket.

Wall.

Repeat.

Sometimes I tested the chain anyway.

I knew it wouldn’t magically become longer.

Still, I would stand and walk until the links stretched tight.

Then I’d stare at the door.

A few more feet.

That was all that separated me from it.

A few feet might as well have been a thousand miles.

I sat against the wall and pulled my knees against my chest.

My stomach twisted.

Empty.

Again.

I couldn’t remember the last time they had brought food.

Yesterday?

Maybe.

Usually it was one sandwich.

Nothing special.

Two pieces of bread.

A slice of meat.

Sometimes cheese.

And one bottle of water.

I had learned quickly not to eat everything at once.

The first time they gave me food, I devoured the sandwich.

I drank nearly the entire bottle of water.

Then nobody came back.

Hours passed.

Maybe an entire day.

Maybe longer.

My throat dried out.

My stomach cramped.

By the time the door finally opened again, I had learned my lesson.

Now I tore the sandwich into pieces.

A little at a time.

One bite.

Wait.

Another bite.

Wait.

Water was worse.

Tiny sips.

Just enough to wet my mouth.

Never enough to satisfy the thirst.

I hated them for making me think about food this way.

I hated them for making water something I feared running out of.

Most of all, I hated that I had started considering one sandwich and a bottle of water a good day.

My stomach growled.

I pressed my hand against it.

“Shut up.”

My voice sounded strange.

Scratchy.

Weak.

I barely recognized it anymore.

The darkness gave no answer.

I closed my eyes.

It didn’t make much difference.

Dark was dark.

I tried to remember home.

Isla Martago.

My island.

God, I missed it.

The ocean.

The breeze.

The smell of salt in the air.

The sound of people.

Real people.

Cars.

Music.

Laughter.

Anything.

I would have given anything to hear somebody laughing.

I had spent so much of my life complaining about Isla Martago.

Too small.

Too protected.

Too many people who knew everybody else’s business.

Now?

I would have kissed the ground if somebody dropped me back there.

My friends had to be looking for me.

They had to be.

That was the thought I held onto when everything else became unbearable.

Whitney would never stop.

Neither would her family.

Whitney Martago was the king’s daughter.

Royalty.

My best friend.

The entire reason this nightmare had begun.

Or at least that was what I’d originally believed.

Whitney had been forced into an engagement with Nikolai Volkov.

Russian mafia.

Even before meeting him, those words had sounded terrifying.

Then I met him.

And terrifying wasn’t enough.

Nikolai could smile while threatening someone.

That was what made him frightening.

He didn’t need to scream.

Didn’t need to slam his fist against tables.

Didn’t need to wave a gun around to prove he had one.

He could sit perfectly still, adjust the cuff of his expensive suit, and say something that made your blood freeze.

Whitney didn’t love him.

Everyone knew it.

Especially because Whitney was involved with Avery Cole.

Avery wasn’t the kind of man who stepped aside when somebody threatened the woman he loved.

Nikolai realized that quickly.

Whitney became leverage.

At least that’s what I thought.

Until the engagement party.

That was when I learned Nikolai’s attention hadn’t really been fixed on Whitney.

Not completely.

He had been watching me.

I remembered that night too clearly.

The lights.

The champagne.

The expensive dresses.

The music.

The way everybody smiled even though half the room was probably carrying a weapon.

I had felt uncomfortable from the second I walked inside.

I should have trusted that feeling.

There had been two men with Nikolai.

I couldn’t remember their names.

Maybe my brain didn’t want to.

But I remembered what they said.

God, I remembered that.

They talked about women as though they weren’t human.

Like objects.

Like entertainment.

One of them bragged about hurting women so badly they couldn’t call for help.

The other laughed.

They talked about killing women when they were finished with them.

Sending pieces back to families.

They laughed about it.

Actually laughed.

I had felt sick.

Then Nikolai told me the woman he intended to hand over to them was Whitney.

My best friend.

“No.”

I could still hear myself saying it.

Nikolai had smiled.

Calm.

Almost amused.

He had known exactly what I would do.

He gave me a choice.

Whitney—

or me.

Except it wasn’t really a choice.

Not to me.

Maybe that made me stupid.

Maybe brave.

Maybe both.

But I couldn’t stand there knowing what those men planned to do to Whitney and save myself.

So I went with Nikolai.

Voluntarily.

At least for the first few steps.

Once we reached his car, everything changed.

I remembered the door closing.

The locks clicking.

My breathing speeding up.

Then Nikolai pulled out a cloth.

“What is that?”

He didn’t answer.

I tried moving away.

There was nowhere to go.

He grabbed me.

I fought.

The cloth covered my mouth and nose.

A strange chemical smell filled my lungs.

I kicked.

Scratched.

Tried holding my breath.

Nikolai whispered something near my ear.

I couldn’t remember what.

Then the lights stretched.

His face blurred.

Everything disappeared.

When I woke up—

I was here.

The first two days after that were enough to teach me exactly what kind of man Nikolai Volkov was.

I didn’t like thinking about those days.

So I didn’t.

Or tried not to.

The marks on my body remembered even when my mind tried to forget.

I pulled my knees tighter against my chest.

They’ll find me.

Whitney will find me.

Someone will.

I repeated it silently.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Because the other possibility was something I couldn’t allow myself to think about.

That nobody knew where I was.

That nobody was coming.

That I could disappear inside this place and become nothing more than another secret buried beneath concrete.

A sound came from outside the room.

I froze.

Metal.

A lock.

My heartbeat jumped.

Another lock turned.

I backed toward the corner automatically.

There wasn’t anywhere to hide.

I knew that.

Still, I tried making myself smaller.

Maybe whoever came through the door wouldn’t notice me.

Ridiculous.

But fear isn’t logical.

The final lock clicked.

The door opened.

Light exploded into the room.

I cried out and covered my eyes.

Pain shot through my head.

After so long in darkness, even the weak hallway light felt like staring into the sun.

A silhouette filled the doorway.

Large.

Very large.

My stomach dropped.

Him.

The brute.

That was what I called him because nobody had bothered telling me his name.

He was taller than most of the other men.

Broader.

Black clothing.

Heavy boots.

Tattoos covering his arms and disappearing beneath his sleeves.

Long black hair pulled into a ponytail.

I had never looked at his face long enough to memorize it.

Eye contact was dangerous here.

I learned that quickly.

Men like these didn’t like being stared at.

Or questioned.

Or challenged.

They liked obedience.

He spoke in Russian.

“Вставать.”

I didn’t move.

Not because I wanted to disobey.

My legs felt weak.

I didn’t understand what he had said.

He repeated it.

Louder.

“Вставать.”

I pressed myself farther into the corner.

“I don’t understand.”

His boots crossed the floor.

Fast.

I barely had time to react before his hand grabbed my hair.

Pain exploded across my scalp.

“Ah!”

He pulled me upright.

My knees nearly folded.

His grip tightened.

“Stand.”

Oh.

That was what he’d said.

“I couldn’t understand you.”

He released my hair only to grab my upper arm.

His fingers nearly circled it.

He looked down at me.

I kept my gaze lowered.

“Look at me.”

My stomach tightened.

Slowly, I lifted my eyes.

That was the first time I really saw him.

He was younger than I’d imagined.

Maybe late twenties.

Early thirties.

Hard to tell.

A scar crossed one eyebrow.

His nose sat slightly crooked, as if it had been broken more than once.

His jaw was sharp.

Dark stubble covered it.

Black hair tied behind his head.

His eyes were dark enough to look almost black in the poor lighting.

Cold.

Impatient.

But not empty.

That surprised me.

I looked away.

He reached for the chain connected to the wall.

Keys jingled.

The lock opened.

Hope flashed through me before I could stop it.

Stupid.

The ankle cuff remained.

He had only disconnected the chain from the wall.

He wrapped the loose end around one fist.

Like a leash.

Humiliation burned through me.

“Walk.”

I didn’t.

He tugged.

I stumbled forward.

“Where are we going?”

He kept walking.

I struggled to keep up.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Bath.”

I almost stopped.

“What?”

He looked over his shoulder.

“You stink.”

His English was understandable but thick with a Russian accent.

The words should have embarrassed me.

Instead relief nearly made me cry.

A shower.

I couldn’t remember the last time I had washed properly.

I smelled awful.

My hair felt greasy and tangled.

My skin felt coated in dirt.

The bucket in the corner made the room unbearable.

I hated what captivity had reduced me to.

He pulled again.

“Move.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try faster.”

My legs were weak from hunger.

My eyes still hadn’t adjusted to the hallway.

I stumbled.

His hand shot out and caught my arm before I fell.

For one second, he steadied me.

Then immediately released me.

“Watch.”

I stared at the floor.

“Hard when I can barely see.”

He muttered something in Russian.

Probably nothing nice.

We walked through a long concrete corridor.

Doors lined both sides.

Closed.

I wondered what was behind them.

Other prisoners?

Storage?

Weapons?

Bodies?

I decided I didn’t want to know.

There were cameras in the corners.

Men stationed near doors.

Nobody spoke to me.

Some stared.

I hated that more.

I kept my eyes on the brute’s boots.

Black combat boots.

Scuffed.

Heavy.

If I ran—

No.

Don’t.

I had tried that once.

The memory came too quickly.

A door left open.

A guard distracted.

Me running.

Bare feet slapping concrete.

Almost reaching a stairwell.

Then—

Nikolai.

I shoved the memory away.

Never again.

Not unless I knew I could make it.

The brute opened another door.

Steam didn’t greet me.

Neither did warmth.

The room was almost as depressing as the cell.

Old tile.

Rust stains.

A showerhead attached to the wall.

A drain in the center of the floor.

A sink.

A cracked mirror.

No privacy.

But there was water.

I nearly cried.

The brute closed the door behind us.

I turned.

He unlocked the cuffs around my wrists.

I hadn’t realized how badly they hurt until they came off.

Red circles surrounded both wrists.

Some areas were bruised purple.

Others cut.

I rubbed them gently.

The brute noticed.

His eyes lingered.

For half a second, something changed in his expression.

Then it disappeared.

“What are you waiting for?”

I looked at the shower.

Then at him.

“You’re staying?”

His jaw tightened.

“Take clothes off.”

I stared.

“What?”

“Shower.”

“I know, but—”

“Clothes.”

My face heated.

The only thing I wore was the thin cotton gown they had put on me after taking my dress from the engagement party.

It barely counted as clothing.

Still—

it was something.

I gripped the hem.

“Can you turn around?”

“No.”

My stomach dropped.

“Please.”

His eyes narrowed.

“You want shower or no?”

I looked at the filthy tile.

Then the water.

Then him.

I swallowed.

Shower.

I needed the shower.

Slowly, I pulled the gown over my head.

Cold air touched my skin.

I immediately wanted to cover myself.

I didn’t.

My arms remained stiff at my sides.

Humiliation crawled over every inch of me.

My body wasn’t what it used to be.

There were bruises.

Cuts.

Burns.

Scars.

Marks that hadn’t existed before Nikolai.

Marks I couldn’t look at without remembering how they got there.

I used to like my body.

Not arrogantly.

I had simply been comfortable in it.

Now I wanted to crawl out of it.

The brute’s gaze moved over me.

Not slowly.

Not like the men at the engagement party had looked at women.

More like he was cataloging injuries.

His jaw tightened.

I turned away.

The shower handle squealed when I twisted it.

Water exploded from the rusted head.

Freezing.

I gasped.

My entire body jerked.

The brute said nothing.

I forced myself underneath.

The water hurt.

Then it felt incredible.

Dirt ran toward the drain.

I closed my eyes and let it wash over my face.

For the first time in however long I’d been here, I almost felt human.

Then I looked around.

No soap.

Of course.

I cleared my throat.

Nothing.

I turned slightly.

“Do you have soap?”

He muttered—

“Нуждающаяся чертова сука.”

I didn’t know the words.

The tone translated perfectly.

I looked down.

“Sorry.”

He stared at me.

Then walked toward a cabinet.

He opened it.

Found a bar of soap.

Held it out.

I took it.

“Thank you.”

His eyebrow lifted slightly.

Like he hadn’t expected gratitude.

I turned back toward the water.

The soap barely lathered.

I tried anyway.

My arms shook.

I washed one shoulder.

Then the other.

My fingers weren’t cooperating.

The room tilted slightly.

I grabbed the wall.

The brute noticed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You falling.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are not.”

“I said I’m fine.”

I tried washing again.

The soap slipped from my hand.

Hit the floor.

I bent to get it.

Dizziness crashed over me.

My knees buckled.

A large hand caught my arm.

“Enough.”

“I’m okay.”

“No.”

He picked up the soap.

Then grabbed a washcloth from the cabinet.

I stared.

“What are you doing?”

“Stand.”

“I am standing.”

“Barely.”

He ran the cloth under the water.

Rubbed soap into it.

Then stepped toward me.

I backed up until tile touched my shoulders.

“I can do it.”

“Then do.”

He handed me the cloth.

I took it.

Tried lifting my arm.

It trembled.

His eyes narrowed.

“When did you eat?”

I said nothing.

“When?”

“I don’t know.”

“What means don’t know?”

“It means I don’t know.”

He stared.

“They bring food.”

“Sometimes.”

“How much?”

I hesitated.

“Sandwich.”

“One?”

“And water.”

“Every meal?”

I almost laughed.

“What meals?”

His face changed.

“How often?”

“I don’t know.”

The anger that crossed his face frightened me.

I immediately looked down.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

I blinked.

“What?”

“Why sorry?”

I didn’t know.

Because angry men were dangerous.

Because apologizing sometimes made them stop.

Because Nikolai taught me quickly that the safest answer was usually whatever made him feel powerful.

The brute cursed in Russian.

Then held out his hand.

“Cloth.”

I tightened my fingers around it.

“I can wash myself.”

“Then wash.”

I tried.

My hand shook harder.

He watched.

Then exhaled through his nose.

“Arms.”

I froze.

“What?”

“Lift.”

Fear crawled over me.

But I obeyed.

He took the washcloth.

His movements were rough.

Efficient.

He scrubbed dirt from my arms.

Shoulders.

Back.

Too hard.

“Ow.”

He paused.

Then resumed with less pressure.

I noticed.

I didn’t say anything.

He moved quickly.

No lingering.

No comments.

No laughter.

Still, shame burned through me.

I stared at the wall.

When he reached areas I couldn’t bear having another person near, I grabbed the cloth from him.

“I can do that.”

He looked at my hand.

Then my face.

For one terrifying second, I thought he would refuse.

Instead—

he released the cloth.

“Do.”

I washed quickly.

My face.

Chest.

Stomach.

Between my legs.

My feet.

Anywhere I could reach.

When I finished, I handed the cloth back.

He rinsed soap from my back where I couldn’t see.

Then stepped away.

“Hair.”

“What?”

“Wash.”

“No shampoo.”

Another Russian curse.

He searched the cabinet.

Nothing.

“Tomorrow.”

I almost laughed.

Tomorrow.

Such a normal word.

As if tomorrow was guaranteed.

As if tomorrow meant something here.

I rinsed my hair with water anyway.

It didn’t help much.

But it was better than before.

When I finished, I turned off the water.

Cold air hit immediately.

I shivered.

The brute grabbed a towel.

He threw it toward me.

I almost missed.

I dried myself.

Slowly.

My arms felt heavier by the second.

He opened another cabinet.

Pulled out a clean white gown.

Thin.

Almost transparent.

I didn’t care.

Clean.

That was enough.

“Put.”

I slipped it over my head.

The fabric fell to my thighs.

I looked down.

You could see nearly everything through it.

My stomach twisted.

But I was clean.

Clean.

I held onto that.

He crouched.

The chain rattled.

I stiffened.

He removed the ankle cuff.

I stared.

My heart jumped.

Then he reached for a different set.

My hope died.

These cuffs were smaller.

He fastened one around each wrist.

I flinched.

“Too tight.”

He looked.

For a moment I expected him to ignore me.

Instead, he loosened one notch.

I stared at him.

He noticed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He attached the chain.

“Walk.”

We left the shower room.

The hallway felt even colder against my wet hair.

My stomach growled loudly.

The brute stopped.

I wanted to disappear.

He looked at me.

Then at my stomach.

“You’re hungry.”

It wasn’t a question.

I looked away.

“I’m fine.”

“Stop saying.”

“What?”

“Fine.”

I swallowed.

“Then yes.”

“How hungry?”

I almost laughed.

“Does it matter?”

His expression hardened.

“Answer.”

“Very.”

He started walking again.

I followed.

“Will I get food?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

He looked back.

“Soon.”

“How soon?”

His jaw tightened.

I immediately lowered my gaze.

“Sorry.”

He muttered something.

Then—

“Stop apologizing.”

I looked up before remembering I wasn’t supposed to.

His eyes met mine.

“Why?”

He stared at me for a long second.

Then turned away.

“Because annoying.”

I almost smiled.

Almost.

We reached my cell.

The door opened.

The smell hit me.

Bleach.

Strong bleach.

I blinked.

The room had been cleaned.

The bucket replaced.

The floor scrubbed.

Even the mattress looked different.

Someone had cleaned it.

It smelled faintly like disinfectant and something floral.

Febreze maybe.

I never thought I’d be happy to smell Febreze.

The brute walked me toward the wall.

My chest sank.

Back to the chain.

Of course.

He fastened it.

Metal clicked.

Freedom gone.

Again.

He stepped toward the door.

Panic rose.

“Wait.”

He stopped.

I immediately regretted speaking.

“What?”

“I’m hungry.”

“I know.”

“Please don’t forget.”

His face went still.

I hated how desperate I sounded.

But hunger had burned away pride.

“I won’t.”

I stared.

“You promise?”

The question escaped before I could stop it.

His expression changed.

Men like him probably didn’t make promises to prisoners.

He looked at me.

Then the chain.

Then the bruises around my wrists.

Finally—

“Food will come.”

It wasn’t a promise.

But it was enough.

He turned.

I spoke again.

“Wait.”

He looked over his shoulder.

I swallowed.

“Thank you.”

His eyebrows pulled together.

“For?”

“The shower.”

He stared at me as if I’d spoken another language.

Then he left.

The locks turned.

One.

Two.

Three.

Darkness swallowed the room.

I stood there for several seconds.

Then slowly walked to the mattress.

It smelled clean.

I sat.

Pulled my knees against my chest.

My skin no longer crawled with dirt.

My hair was wet.

My stomach still hurt.

My wrists still burned.

My ankle was still chained.

Nothing had really changed.

And yet—

something had.

I couldn’t explain it.

Maybe because the brute loosened the cuff when I said it hurt.

Maybe because he gave me the cloth when I told him I wanted to wash myself.

Maybe because he seemed angry when he learned they weren’t feeding me.

Those were tiny things.

Pathetic things to notice.

The bare minimum of humanity.

I knew that.

A man didn’t become good simply because he wasn’t cruel every second.

He was still one of them.

Still my captor.

Still the man who dragged me down hallways on a chain.

I couldn’t forget that.

I wouldn’t.

My stomach growled.

I curled onto my side.

Closed my eyes.

Sleep.

That was my escape.

In my dreams, I went home.

Whitney was there.

The ocean was there.

I walked barefoot along the beach.

Nobody followed me.

Nobody chained me.

Nobody told me when I could eat.

I was free.

Sometimes my family was there.

Sometimes my friends.

Sometimes nobody.

Just me.

And that was enough.

I had almost fallen asleep when the locks turned again.

My eyes flew open.

Light entered.

I pushed myself upright.

The brute stood in the doorway.

He held something.

A tray.

I stared.

He walked inside.

Set it near the mattress.

A bowl.

Bread.

A bottle of water.

My mouth filled with saliva so quickly it hurt.

I looked at him.

“Food.”

I didn’t move.

He frowned.

“You said hungry.”

“I am.”

“Then eat.”

I crawled toward the tray.

The bowl contained soup.

Actual soup.

Steam rose from it.

There were vegetables.

Potatoes.

Pieces of chicken.

I stared at it.

“Is this for me?”

The brute looked annoyed.

“No. For wall.”

I glanced at him.

He was serious.

Then I realized—

he wasn’t.

Was that a joke?

I looked back at the food.

My hands shook as I picked up the spoon.

I took one bite.

Warmth filled my mouth.

I nearly cried.

I ate another.

Then another.

Too fast.

The brute crouched.

“Slow.”

I stopped.

“What?”

“You eat fast, you get sick.”

I hated that he was right.

I forced myself to slow down.

He stayed.

I didn’t know why.

I ate half.

Stopped.

He frowned.

“Why stop?”

“I’m saving it.”

“For what?”

“Later.”

“There will be more.”

I looked at him.

He didn’t understand.

“That’s what people say.”

His expression changed.

I picked up the bread.

Tore it in half.

Put one piece beside the bowl.

His jaw tightened.

“Eat.”

“I am.”

“All.”

“I can’t.”

“You said hungry.”

“I am.”

“Then eat.”

My fingers curled around the bread.

“If I eat it all and nobody comes tomorrow—”

“I come.”

I looked at him.

The words were simple.

Certain.

“I bring food.”

“Why?”

He stared at me.

Maybe he didn’t know.

Maybe nobody had asked him that before.

Finally he stood.

“Because Nikolai doesn’t want you dead.”

There it was.

Reality.

Not kindness.

Orders.

I looked down.

“Right.”

He walked toward the door.

Then stopped.

“Eat.”

I took another bite.

He left.

Locks turned.

Darkness returned.

I ate.

Slowly.

Every bite.

For the first time since I arrived, I went to sleep without my stomach clawing at itself.

And somewhere between waking and dreaming, a thought came to me.

Dangerous.

Stupid.

Unwelcome.

The brute had brought me food himself.

I didn’t know his name.

Didn’t know why he worked for Nikolai.

Didn’t know what kind of man he was when he wasn’t dragging prisoners through underground hallways.

But I knew one thing.

He had noticed I was hungry.

In a place where everyone else seemed determined to forget I was human—

he noticed.

And I hated myself a little for how much that mattered.