Chapter 3 — Taken, Not Touched

Nina pov

Ricky doesn’t get dragged away.

That’s what surprises me most.

No shouting. No struggle. No hands grabbing his arms and twisting them behind his back like I half expect, like I’ve seen before in places like this when men push too far and forget where they are.

Instead, Mariela steps closer to him, calm and precise, and says his name once.

Just once.

“Ricky.”

The way she says it isn’t loud. It isn’t angry. It’s finished.

Two men appear at his sides as if they’ve been standing there the whole time and I just never noticed. They don’t touch him right away either. They stand close enough that the air around him feels owned.

Ricky laughs, thin and sharp. “Hey— come on. This is a misunderstanding.”

No one answers him.

I feel his knee bouncing under the table, fast now. His confidence has evaporated, leaving something small and frantic behind. He looks at me, eyes wide, searching my face for something—sympathy, loyalty, fear.

Anything he can use.

“Nina,” he says, and my name sounds wrong in his mouth now. “Tell them. Tell them we’re together.”

I don’t move.

I don’t say anything.

It feels like my body is made of stone, heavy and immovable, like if I open my mouth something will break that can’t be fixed.

Ricky’s hand reaches for me on instinct.

It doesn’t make it.

One of the men steps in smoothly, placing himself between us without ever touching Ricky. Just a shift. A wall where there wasn’t one before.

Ricky’s hand stops midair.

The absence of his grip is startling.

I don’t realize how much pressure I’ve been holding in my chest until it eases, just slightly, like a band loosening around my ribs. The relief is so sudden it scares me. Relief is dangerous. Relief makes you careless.

“Don’t,” the man at the table says quietly.

Not to me.

To Ricky.

Ricky freezes.

“I didn’t do anything,” he says quickly. “I’m just— I was talking.”

“You were offering,” the man replies. His voice is calm, almost bored. “And you don’t own what you tried to give away.”

Ricky swallows. His throat bobs hard.

“She’s my girlfriend,” he insists, weaker now. “She came with me.”

The man’s gaze lifts to him again. Dark. Steady. Unmoved.

“She’s leaving,” he says. “You are not.”

The words settle into the space between us.

Ricky’s mouth opens. Closes. He looks around like he might find help in the corners of the room. He doesn’t.

For the first time since I’ve known him, he looks small.

“I’ll pay,” he says. “I swear. Just give me time.”

The man leans back slightly in his chair, folding his hands together.

“You’ve had time,” he says. “You spent it.”

One of the men finally places a hand on Ricky’s shoulder. Not rough. Certain.

Ricky jerks instinctively, then stills when the second hand joins the first.

He turns his head toward me again, desperation flashing across his face.

“Nina,” he says. “You’re not seriously—”

The man at the table interrupts him without raising his voice.

“If you say her name again,” he says, “I will remove your tongue.”

Silence drops like a curtain.

Ricky’s face drains of color. He doesn’t speak again.

They guide him away from the table, one step at a time. Not hurried. Not violent. Just inevitable.

As he’s pulled back, his fingers brush my knee for half a second.

Then they’re gone.

The space where his hand was feels too open. Too exposed. My skin prickles, unsure what to do without the constant pressure.

I sit there, heart pounding, staring at the empty chair across from me.

No one tells me to stand.

No one touches me.

The man at the table turns his attention fully to me now.

“You can go,” he says.

I blink. “Go… where?”

“Not with him,” he replies.

Mariela steps into my line of sight, her expression unreadable but steady.

“Come,” she says.

I hesitate, my body slow to trust the absence of force. Every instinct I have is braced for hands, for pain, for the moment when choice is revealed to be a lie.

But no one grabs me.

No one rushes me.

I push my chair back myself. The sound it makes against the floor is loud in my ears. I half expect someone to flinch.

They don’t.

As I stand, I feel it fully then—the truth settling into my bones.

Ricky didn’t let me go.

I was taken from him.

And for the first time in a long time, no one asked me to apologize for it.

Mariela doesn’t touch me.

She turns and starts walking as if I’m expected to follow, as if the decision has already been made and my body just hasn’t caught up yet. Her heels don’t click. They land softly, confidently, like the floor knows her.

I stand there for a second too long.

My instincts scream for instructions. For a shove. For someone to grab my arm and make it clear what happens if I don’t move.

Nothing happens.

Mariela glances back once, not impatient. Not threatening. Just checking.

I push my chair in myself.

The sound is loud. Too loud. My shoulders tense, waiting for the reaction that never comes. No one looks at me. No one says my name. The room swallows the moment like it was never important.

I follow her.

The walk through the club feels different without Ricky beside me. No hand on my back. No fingers digging into my hip to remind me where I belong. I feel wider without him, like the space around me doesn’t know how to adjust.

Eyes slide over me. Some curious. Some calculating. Some indifferent. I can’t tell which ones are worse.

My pulse keeps a fast, uneven rhythm, like it’s trying to outrun me.

We pass tables I recognize. Men I’ve seen before. Men who’ve watched me sit quietly while Ricky lost money he didn’t have. I keep my gaze forward. I don’t apologize for taking up space. I don’t shrink.

The exit door looms ahead, heavy and dark. A strip of cold air sneaks in every time it opens, carrying the smell of rain and asphalt and freedom that isn’t really freedom.

Mariela pushes it open.

The night hits me hard. Cool. Damp. Honest.

I stop just outside the door, my breath catching. For a wild second, I think about running. About turning left instead of right and letting the street swallow me whole.

But then I see it.

The car is parked at the curb, black and seamless, engine idling so quietly it feels like it’s listening. The driver stands beside it, already opening the rear door.

He looks at me. Then he waits.

Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t reach.

The pause stretches.

I realize something then, sharp and unsettling:

If I don’t get in, no one is going to force me.

The thought is terrifying.

Because it means the choice is mine — and I don’t trust myself to make it.

I step forward.

The interior of the car is dim, leather smelling faintly of something clean and expensive. I slide in, muscles tight, already bracing for hands that don’t come.

Then I see him.

He’s already inside.

Sitting on the far side of the back seat, posture relaxed, one ankle resting over the opposite knee like this is just another quiet moment in his night. His jacket is open. His presence fills the space anyway.

In his hand is a gun.

Not raised. Not hidden.

Resting casually against his thigh, angled slightly toward me — not enough to be an accident. Enough to be a message.

Our eyes meet.

Up close, there’s nothing theatrical about him. No dramatic scar. No cruel smile. Just a face carved from restraint, eyes dark and steady, watching me the way you watch something that might bolt.

The door closes behind me with a soft, final click.

The sound locks into my chest.

He doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t move the gun.

The car pulls away from the curb, smooth and silent, the city sliding past the tinted windows like it’s already letting me go.

I swallow, my throat dry, every nerve in my body awake.

This isn’t rescue.

This isn’t safety.

This is the moment where I find out what he plans to do with what he took.

And he’s still watching me.