Katerina

Katerina

The urge to struggle is driving me mad.

My body is tense as a spring, eager to explode with every step I'm forced to blindly take. Don't fight back. I need to get my bearings before I act. I know I'm outnumbered. I have to be patient.

"Inside," one of the men grunts, putting his hand between my shoulders. A single shove sends me sprawling forward. I catch my balance, spinning around to face them—there's a click. I freeze, picturing the barrel of a gun aimed at my chest. They're going to shoot me. I'm dead. Oh shit.

Oxygen simmers through my lungs, exhaling at such a speed I sway on my feet. Nothing is happening. My ears scream as I strain to hear proof of what Sasha's men are plotting.

It's just silence.

That wasn't a gun cocking. It was the door closing!

Ripping the blindfold off, I see that I'm alone in a bedroom. As big as it is, it doesn't feel empty. Someone has taken the time to carefully decorate the shelves along the walls with bowls of dried flowers and small candles in shades of red to balance the sunflower-yellow carpet. There's a single window with heavy, dark blue curtains drawn. I dash there first, yanking the fabric aside. My fingers tug at the frame, inching the glass upward. It's not locked because it doesn't have to be.

A fall from here would shatter my bones.

Sticking my head out, I survey the verdant grass swimming in floodlights. It's no different than a prison yard. The black Escalade is still parked below, but the other cars are gone. Squinting at the gates, I see that they're closed tight. Just beyond them, barely moving, are the shadows of two men.

Curling my nails on the windowsill, I breathe in one more gulp of fresh night air before shutting the glass. I can't get out this way. It's time to look around the room for other options.

The queen-sized bed has four posts that reach the ceiling, a canopy draping off like the hem of a gown. No doubt in my mind; that burgundy blanket and the pillows that match it is expensive silk. It's the kind of place I'd dream about lounging in. But right now, I rush to the shelves, frantically searching for something sharp.

There must be something I can use as a weapon here! But every drawer I open is empty except for spare blankets, some satin sheets, and even a stack of plush robes and slippers. There's not a single thing I can use to defend myself. My eyes shift to the discarded blindfold. Imagining myself trying to use it to garrote someone is laughable. I'd never manage it, especially if it's Sasha. He's so tall I doubt I'd reach his throat, even if I caught him off guard. How am I going to defend myself from Sasha or his men when they come back?

But one thing is for sure: I refuse to stay here, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

My steps are softened by the thick carpet as I tiptoe to the door. I want to be as careful as possible. Gently touching the brass knob, I give it a hesitating turn. To my utter shock, the door opens with a gentle clack. Paranoid that this is another trap, I lean forward just enough to peer out of the room. To either side of me stretches a long, well-lit hallway. The floor has a red and gold runner on it. The walls are polished, dark walnut wood, decorated here and there with elaborate art.

I briefly stare down the empty sockets of a stone angel bending gracefully off a waist-high pillar. There are other pieces with a romantic air to them. I wouldn't have guessed this mansion belonged to a cruel beast like Sasha.

My heart begins to drum. The idiots forgot to lock me in! If I move fast and avoid being seen, I can slip out of here before Sasha returns. Thinking about him makes my heart fold itself into origami. By all means, the man should disgust me. I've never met someone so cocky, so damn full of themselves. But the thought of him suddenly conjures up the memory of his body on me, warm and insistent as he sandwiched me against the car while he whispered in my ear—voice dripping with sinful wickedness and promises of endless carnal desires.

Don't go getting Stockholm syndrome already. Steeling my nerves, I creep to the left. I vaguely remember being turned around a corner after coming up a stairwell, right before being pushed into the bedroom. The blindfold took my orientation away, but my gut gives me a good feeling that this is the way I have to go.

But the longer I walk—calves cramping from tiptoeing—the more I think I made a mistake. Door after door reveals nothing but closets, empty bedrooms, or a smattering of offices. Growing more panicked, I start walking quicker. Where do I go? Where's the way out? Fifteen doors, still nothing. Sasha's mansion is a labyrinth.

I also have a suspicion I'm being watched. Each time I glance around, I see nobody, yet the hair on my scalp tingles. It's strange ... If there are people spying on me as I wander, why aren't they stopping me? Sasha went through the trouble of blindfolding me, shoving me in a room, but he didn't bother tying my hands or feet.

Does he want me to explore his home? Not understanding his motivation leaves me exasperated. I don't have time to make sense of it. If this is a trap, fine. It's better than sitting quietly in that damn room while waiting for the guillotine to fall.

Door number sixteen comes within my reach. It has a clean brass knob, the pale wood indistinguishable from all the rest. Whoever designed this mansion had a cohesive vision. I've only been on this one floor; I haven't found the stairs yet. It's possible the other floors look different ... I don't want to find out.

Escaping is my singular focus.

I peer inside, confirm it's not a way out of the house, then begin to rush off to find door seventeen. Just before I leave, something catches my eye. I do a double take. No way. Ice swims inside my veins as I move into the room. In front of me, propped up on the wall, is a large poster board. Taped to it are various pictures.

Photographs of me.

Covering my mouth in horror, I scan the photos one by one. I was wrong; not all of them are of me. Some are of my mother, a few are of the store itself. That's when I notice the horrific fact that unifies all of them. These photos ... They were all taken after my father's funeral! I know because I had my mother braid my hair that day. She placed one of the white roses from Dad's wreath in my hair.

Afterward, too grief-stricken to even shower, I left my hair braided for days. The flower wilted, but I kept it in place. One morning I woke in a panic to find it gone.

I tore apart my bed. My bathroom. Even my car. That was when Mom found me. Taking my hands, she pulled me close, ignoring—or so I thought—my rattling sobs. When she curled my hands around something solid, I saw she was crying too.

She pressed a small brooch—the rose cast in resin—into my palm. That brooch is in the photos, pinned to my collar. Lifting my fingers, I touch my neck, feeling for the ghost of the small hard object. I stopped wearing it daily a few months ago. I wish I hadn't.

"What is all this?" I whisper. Shaking my head in horror, I look for more clues. Someone had to take these pictures. Was it Sasha? Or someone else? How long have I been being followed? Clutching the hem of my dress, I fight back a violent tremor. Being stalked isn't new to me.

But this ... This is like something from a horror movie come to life.

One of the photos of Mom catches my eye. She's standing outside the store, cigarette between her fingers. What if it's not me who's being watched? Could this have something to do with her? If I had a match, I'd set this strange altar on fire. The second-best option is to leave.

Rubbing my arms nervously, I begin to back away, only for my shoulders to thump against something solid. It yields slightly, the way a wall can't. Yelping in surprise, I turn just in time to see who's behind me.

Thick shoulders allow him to effortlessly block my only path of escape. His presence commands obedience. Like any good prey, I freeze under the twin voids of his eyes, the blackness sucking me in.

Holding me down.

Sasha Ivanovsky has found me.