Chapter 5
Sabrina
T he suite is gorgeous, but it’s sterile in the way that expensive hotel rooms always are. Everything is perfectly arranged, from the fresh flowers on the side table to the stack of fluffy towels in the bathroom, but there’s no warmth here. No personality.
It’s a beautiful cage, and I’m the bird trapped inside.
The lock clicks my captor, and the sound echoes through the room like a gunshot. I wait, listening for footsteps in the hallway, but the carpeting is too thick to hear anything beyond the door. The silence that follows is deafening.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, my legs finally giving out as the adrenaline that’s been carrying me through this nightmare starts to fade.
The Egyptian cotton sheets are softer than anything I’ve ever owned, but they might as well be sandpaper for all the comfort they provide.
This isn’t a guest room. This is a prison cell dressed up in designer furnishings.
My head throbs, and the injection site is still tender.
My mouth tastes like copper and fear, making me suspect I bit myself at some point during the abduction or unconscious period afterward.
I touch the spot on my neck gingerly, wincing when my fingers find the small puncture wound.
Whatever he used to knock me out is still making me dizzy, and every time I move too quickly, the room spins.
I need to think. I need to figure out what the hell is happening to me and how to get out of here alive.
The man who brought me here thinks I’m someone named Irina Volkov, a woman who disappeared ten years ago with information that got his brother killed. The resemblance is notable, but I’ve never seen that woman’s face before in my life. I would remember. You don’t forget something like that.
He doesn’t believe me, of course. That much was clear from the way he questioned me, probing for inconsistencies in my story like he was expecting me to slip up and reveal my true identity.
The problem is that my true identity is exactly what I told him—Sabrina Clyde, twenty-six years old, from Modesto, California.
I’m a woman drowning in medical debt and working at a nightclub to keep her head above water.
There’s nothing particularly exciting about me, and I’m definitely not worth kidnapping.
The sitting area has a leather sofa that’s buttery soft, and a stack of windows offering a peaceful view of the mountains and forest.
I walk over to test the glass, pressing my palms against the cool surface. It doesn’t budge. The windows are sealed, and the glass is thick enough that I suspect it’s bulletproof.
So much for an easy escape.
I examine the rest of the room, looking for anything that might help me get the hell out of here, or at least understand what I’m dealing with.
The bathroom is stocked with expensive toiletries and thick towels, but there’s nothing that could be used as a weapon.
The furniture is too heavy to move, and everything breakable has been removed or secured.
He’s thought of everything.
A soft knock at the door makes me freeze. I back away from the windows, my heart galloping as I wait to see who’s coming in. The lock disengages with an electronic beep, and the door opens to reveal a man I haven’t seen before.
He’s younger than my captor, maybe early thirties, with the kind of build indicating he spends serious time in the gym. He’s carrying a tray with water, sandwiches, and what looks like soup, and he enters the room like I’m a guest instead of a prisoner.
I press myself against the far wall. “Who are you?”
He sets the tray on the coffee table without answering, then straightens and looks at me with the kind of professional detachment that’s somehow more unnerving than outright hostility.
This isn’t personal for him. I’m just another job, another problem to be managed.
“Eat something,” he says finally. His voice is surprisingly gentle. “You’ll feel better.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Eat anyway. Boss’s orders.”
He turns and walks back toward the door, and I realize this might be my only chance to get information from someone who isn’t playing mind games with photographs and accusations.
“Wait.” I take a step toward him. “What’s your name?”
He pauses at the door but doesn’t turn around. “Doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
“Eat the food, drink the water, and get some rest. Someone will be back to check on you later.”
The door closes behind him with an electronic click, and I’m alone again. The smell of the food makes my stomach growl despite everything, reminding me I haven’t eaten since starting my shift at the club. How long ago was that? Hours? Days? Time has lost all meaning in this nightmare.
I approach the tray cautiously, half-expecting the food to be drugged. I guess if they wanted me unconscious, they wouldn’t need to be so subtle about it. They could just inject me with whatever they used in the alley, so my hunger overcomes my fear.
The sandwich is turkey and Swiss on sourdough bread, and it tastes better than anything has a right to in a situation like this.
The soup is tomato basil and seems homemade, while the water is cold and clean.
I eat mechanically, my body demanding fuel even as my mind races through possible escape scenarios.
Looking up, I suddenly notice a small, dark circle in the corner of the room. It’s positioned high up near the ceiling and camouflaged among the decorative molding, but once I spot it, I can’t look away.
A camera.
They’re watching me right now. They’re probably recording everything I do to analyze every expression on my face and dissect every word I speak.
The realization hits me like ice water, and I drop the spoon I was using for the soup.
It clatters against the coffee table, sounding unnaturally loud in the silent room.
Panic floods my system, sharp and cold and overwhelming. I bolt toward the door and start pounding on it with both fists. “Let me out!” I scream, hammering against the solid wood until my hands ache. “Let me out of here right now!”
There’s no response to indicate that anyone can hear me or cares I’m falling apart.
I keep pounding anyway, because the alternative is to collapse on the floor and give up, and I’m not ready to do that yet.
“I’m not who you think I am,” I shout at the camera, turning away from the door to face the lens directly.
“My name is Sabrina Clyde, and I’ve never heard of Irina Volkov before tonight. This is kidnapping. This is insane!”
My voice cracks on the last word, stress and exhaustion finally overwhelming the anger that’s been keeping me upright. I slide down the door until I’m sitting on the floor, my back pressed against the wood, my knees drawn up to my chest.
I don’t know how long I sit there. It’s long enough for the remaining food to get cold and for the shadows outside the windows to shift. I remain there long enough e to cycle through anger to fear to desperation and back to anger again.
When the door finally opens, I scramble to my feet and back away, putting the coffee table between myself and whoever is entering.
It’s him. My captor. The man with winter-storm eyes and the kind of stillness that suggests he has no problem using violence.
He steps into the room and closes the door behind him, then leans against it with his arms crossed.
He’s changed clothes since I last saw him, trading the expensive suit for dark jeans and a black sweater that makes him look less like a businessman and more like a predator.
“Irina.” He says the name like it means something, like it carries weight and history and pain.
The sound of it makes something cold settle in my stomach. “That’s not my name.”
“No?” He tilts his head slightly, studying my face with the intensity of someone trying to solve a puzzle. “Then why are you so upset?”
I gesture wildly toward the camera. “Because you’re holding me prisoner. Because you drugged me and brought me to God knows where, and you’re watching me like I’m some kind of lab rat.”
He doesn’t react to my outburst. He doesn’t flinch or step back or show any sign that my words have affected him at all. He just watches me with that same unnerving stillness, like he’s waiting for something specific.
“You kidnapped me,” I continue, my voice rising with each word. “You drugged me unconscious and brought me to this place and locked me in a room, and now you’re asking me why I’m upset? What kind of man does that? What kind of monster are you?”
Still nothing. No reaction, no explanation, and no sign he feels even a flicker of remorse for what he’s done to me. There’s something deeply wrong with this man.
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly aware I’m still wearing the black dress from the club. It feels like a costume now, a reminder of the life I had before this nightmare began. “I want to go home.”
“Where is home, Irina?”
The way he keeps using that name makes my skin crawl. “My name is Sabrina . Sabrina Clyde. I live in an apartment on Maple Street with my roommate, Jessica. I work at Haus Modesto serving drinks to people like you who think their money makes them untouchable.”
“People like me?”
I sneer. “Rich. Entitled. Used to getting whatever you want no matter who gets hurt in the process.”
That gets a reaction, finally. Not anger or defensiveness, but something that might be amusement flickering in those handsome gray eyes. “Is that what you think I am?”
“You kidnapped me because I look like a photo. That’s insane.”
He pushes away from the door and moves closer, and I instinctively back toward the windows.
He stops when he reaches the coffee table, close enough that I can see the small scar that cuts through his left eyebrow and smell the expensive cologne he wears.
“Tell me about your mother,” he says quietly.
I stare at him in disbelief. “Are you serious? You want to ask me the same questions again?”