Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Anissa
Sleep. Blissful, deep sleep. Until it isn’t anymore.
I open one eye, groggy. My head hurts and feels too big for my body.
I wake up slowly. The first thing I register is the cold bite of metal on my wrists. Tight.
The second is a smell that’s all too familiar—one that’s been in my apartment.
Leather. Whiskey. Pine.
My heart beats too fast as memory rushes back. Him.
I wasn’t imagining things. I wasn’t hallucinating. Lovely. My life’s become one long episode of a freaky reality TV psycho-thriller.
I did have a stalker—one who had me terrified and running for my life. My eyes snap open.
Where am I? It’s dark, and I’m… in a cage. A cage.
Oh my fucking god.
The space is dimly lit, one flickering ivory bulb barely cutting through the shadows, the walls bare. If there are windows, they’re sealed tight and covered.
It feels like the ground beneath me is swaying. Am I…moving?
Where the hell am I?
Am I in a truck? A ship?
I don’t know.
But I do know one thing—
This isn’t some damp basement. No duct tape around my wrists. I’m in a fucking cage.
I’m lying on a sleeping mat, with sheets beneath me and a heavy blanket over me, but it doesn’t change where I am—
A prison.
The very thing I’ve spent my entire adult life trying to escape. Bile rises in the back of my throat along with my fury, but I have to stay focused.
Calm.
My body aches.
The back of my head throbs.
I close my eyes, trying to remember what happened.
My head hit a concrete wall. My wrists are sore, trapped in heavy-duty cuffs. I’m no stranger to kink—I’ve played around with handcuffs in my past—but these? These are the real deal. When I tug experimentally, they don’t budge.
I open my mouth, licking dry lips.
At least I’m not gagged.
And then I hear it—
That same heavy, deep breathing that woke me in my apartment.
My voice is hoarse. “Who’s there? Why did I hear you in my apartment? Why are you doing this to me?” I don’t sound as angry as I feel. I could spit venom right now.
There’s a shift in the shadows. My breathing stills.
He’s here.
He’s sitting on the outside of the cage, arms crossed over the sheer mass of him, broad and inked and huge. His hair’s dark, unruly, and his eyes—those fucking eyes—blue-streaked gray, like fire and ash.
I hate the way my stomach clenches when he stares at me as if he… as if he knows me. Calculating. Assessing. Like I’m a problem that needs to be handled.
The cut of his jaw is too sharp, his features unforgivingly violent and raw, his mouth cruel.
A thick neck covered in ink that snakes down his chest and over his shoulders, the type of shoulders built for hard work and heavy lifting.
He leans forward, his body massive. Broad-shouldered, with a quiet intensity radiating from every inch of him.
But it’s the way he watches me that makes my skin crawl and burn at the same time. Like he already owns me. Like the chase is over, and he already knows exactly how this ends.
He has ten minutes, give or take, before I make him regret not kidnapping literally any other woman but me.
I should hate him. I do… I do hate him. But somewhere, under the hate, is something worse. Dangerous.
Something that feels like… fascination.
I stare before I ask again, “Who are you?” I pretend it takes all my energy to say this, like I’m more drugged than I am. I have to play into this if I’m going to escape, and I am going to fucking escape.
No one cages Anissa Laurent and lives to tell about it.
He doesn’t answer. Just watches me, taking up space in a worn leather chair, legs spread, one arm draped lazily over the armrest—like he has all the time in the world. Like he’s about to crack open a beer and watch a game.
My stomach tightens.
His voice is low, rough, and full of dark amusement. “Finally awake? Makes sense; I guess you were sleep-deprived.”
I glare at him. The weight of his gaze bears down on me. I wait, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t snarl. Doesn’t gloat or threaten.
Just watches. Unmoving. Patient. Like a wolf who’s already sunk its teeth in but enjoys the struggle too much to end it yet.
This hunt is over.
That’s what he thinks.
I force my breathing to steady. Panic is useless. I’ve been here before. I had to wait, bide my time until I could run.
I need information. A plan. My eyes flick to the corner of the room, searching.
He chuckles, low and lazy. I shiver. “Looking for an exit, little witch, so you can cast your spell?”
I roll my eyes at him. “Cute.”
His eyes narrow, even as he lets loose another chuckle that curls around my spine.
“Go to hell,” I snarl.
“Sweetheart,” he drawls, “I already told you.” A slow smile spreads across his face. “That’s where I came from. Do you want me to take you along with me?”
Right. I try to hide the shiver that rolls through me.
I don’t know who he is. I don’t know why I’m here. But I will not break.
I will not let him win. I will find a way out.
I can’t fucking wait. Finally, a chance to do what I do best, but to save my own damn hide.
Little does he know he’s in for the fight of his life.
He tilts his head, watching me as if he can hear my resolve, before he stands.
Of course he’s tall. Legs like tree trunks. Hands as big as fucking dinner plates. None of that lankiness I’ve seen from other men. A full-grown man where others are boys.
“Let’s get one thing straight, little witch.” His voice is low, soft—almost gentle. “There’s no hiding anymore. No more running. Nowhere else for you to go. No one to save you.”
Blah, blah, fucking blah. It’s what they all say. I roll my eyes and lift my chin in defiance, even as he looms over me. If I had a dollar for every mobster who thought monologuing in chest-beating grunts made him sexy or powerful, I’d be retiring in Hawaii by now.
I shrug. “Meh. You don’t know that.”
Unless my fairy godmother moonlights as a grifter.
I’m bluffing though. The people who would have saved me? They’d be here by now. I’m not so special that anyone would go out of their way to find me.
Stepping closer, he reaches through the bars. His finger brushes the cuff, slow and deliberate. The metal is cold, but his touch burns. My breath catches before I can stop it.
He notices. His gaze flicks to mine, unreadable. “I know everything about you, Anissa.” My name drips from his lips like a taunt. “Every alias. Every safe house. Every escape plan.”
Whatever. That’s what he thinks.
Gold glints on his ears. Little hoops. Why is that so damn sexy on a man like him?
My eyes drift over the ink on his arms—Bratva, without question.
The markings tell me rank and allegiance.
High-level, but not a boss. He takes orders, but he’s not a pawn.
More dangerous than either. He’s the kind of man they trust to make people disappear. To make sure they stay gone.
I can only assume my worst fear—the very reason I made a deal with the Irish in the first place—has finally come true. The Kopolov family has come to collect what’s owed.
But he isn’t one of the Kopolov brothers or the man I left at the altar. I don’t recognize him.
I’ve heard strange rumors about the man I was supposed to marry.
Rafail Kopolov is the Kopolov family pakhan.
I’m told he’s now married, which is a relief for me because I figured he’d be less inclined to come chase me.
The McCarthys never shared details with me, and I didn’t want them because I figured the less I spoke of the Kopolovs, the better.
For a while, I thought Rafail wasn’t hunting me anymore. But a part of me always knew the reprieve wouldn’t last. Eventually, they would come. Not to reclaim me but to punish me.
But… this man isn’t Rafail.
He's younger, for one. Bigger, heavier.
I stifle a sigh and get myself together.
Okay, alright.
I know what to do here—if you’re out of your element, in danger, and in desperate need of more information and an escape route.
Rule number one: Play dumb.
"I have no idea who you are," I lie.
He tips his head to the side. "You're a pretty convincing liar. What's your pain level?"
Rule number two: Try to gain sympathy for the purpose of disarming.
“It’s alright, though I think you gave me a… what do you call it…”—I feign a lack of focus to lean into the drugged-up as fuck skit—“concussion.”
He crouches in front of the metal bars.
I pretend my pulse doesn’t race.
“Did you think I was such a danger to you that you felt it necessary to put me in a cage like an animal? Frankly, I'm honored."
"No, not at all. I'm just a kinky motherfucker and wanted to see what you’d look like behind bars.” He gives me a mirthless smile and a wink that sends my heartbeat between my thighs. “And no one can hear you scream in here.”
Kinky motherfucker.
Why do I have the literal worst taste in men? Why?
“Locking me up doesn’t make you more powerful.”
His lips twitch, and his voice lowers. Calm. Deep. “Of course not. I don’t need bars for that.”
Heat rises in my cheeks. I wasn't prepared for that answer. "So, are you going to tell me who you are, or do I have to guess?"
"You're a smart girl."
Rule number three: Hold your ground.
I shake my head. “I’m not a girl, you condescending prick.”
He drags his eyes down the length of my body, and for the first time, I look down at myself. The shirt I was wearing is ragged, the frayed edges baring my breasts. It’s risen up, showing my torso, and the leggings I'm wearing are still taut around my legs and ass.
"My mistake; you're definitely not a girl."
“Glad we cleared that up unless you need a better flash of my tits, or are you good, big guy?”
His look grows feral. I can feel his low growl from here, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t affect me.
I swallow hard. I play a good game, but I’m human. A sex-deprived, twisted, also kinky, self-assured human.
I was a lot more afraid when I didn't know who was after me, and I feared that my mind was playing tricks on me. Now that I know I have been kidnapped and that I wasn't fucking it all up in my mind, I'm actually a little relieved.