Rachel
Nikolai shifts beneath me and a startle awake. Sore and aching, but feeling warm and safe on his lap.
“I need to go to work, little rabbit.”
Work.
I lift myself from him and take my time gathering up my clothes and dressing again. My phone is still in my clutch from last night, but still needs charging. I’ll need to contact work, let them know I won’t be in tomorrow. And text my friends and let them know I’m okay…
Because they will be worried about me. Right?
“Penny for them?” he asks and I offer a sharp shrug.
“Just wondering if my friends are worried about me. I couldn’t find them last night, then I was essentially kidnapped. Now I’m here.” I can feel the frown on my face, but he smooths it away with a kiss to my forehead. For some reason it makes my throat feel tight.
That’s the worst part.
I sit on the edge of the bed with my phone in my hands while he buttons his shirt, sleeves still rolled up from earlier.
He’s already in work mode, controlled, composed, a different kind of dangerous.
But still mine, in some quiet, unspoken way.
The contrast shouldn’t make my stomach flutter, but it does.
“Clara is in all day, if you want some company,” he says as he slides a watch onto his wrist. “And she should be able to find a charger for your phone.”
I nod, rubbing a thumb along the edge of my knee. The scrape from last night is beginning to scab. It itches. Everything aches or itches.
My thoughts are louder now. No longer muffled by sex and adrenaline.
I think about my job. The endless emails.
The way my boss doesn’t remember my name and steals my ideas and never gives credit where it’s due.
The old microwave in the break room that hardly ever heats up food all the way.
The coworker who cried in the bathroom for an hour last week and no one said anything.
I think about Lena and Ava. Friends I used to feel close to, before everything became a competition. Before every birthday was an excuse to drink too much and post filtered selfies to prove we were thriving when really we’re barely clinging on to what we thought adulthood was supposed to be.
Maybe they thought I left with someone. Maybe they were too drunk to care.
Or maybe they just forgot.
A lump forms in my throat, thick and unexpected.
I’ve never vanished before. Never just disappeared. And now that I have, now that I’m sitting in this bedroom wrapped in stolen heat and bruises that make me feel wanted , I can’t stop wondering—
What would I really be leaving behind if I stayed here?
A tiny apartment with a leaking pipe in the bathroom.
A job that drains me.
Friends who don’t even notice when I’m gone.
My hand drifts to the base of my throat, where the memory of his touch still lingers. I swear I can feel it, his teeth, his hands, the way he growled mine like it was a vow. Not a question. Not even a request.
He’s halfway to the door now, hand on the handle.
“I’ll be gone for a couple of hours,” he says. “Stay in the house. Don’t wander.”
I lift my chin. “Why? What happens if I do?”
He studies me for a moment. Then walks back and bends low, brushing his mouth against mine, slow and tender.
“You’re not ready to know that yet,” he murmurs.
Then he’s gone.
The door clicks shut behind him, and I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for days. I stare at the space where he just stood. The echo of his presence still lingers in the room like smoke.
I should be panicking. Screaming. Calling someone. Leaving. But instead, I curl my knees to my chest and sit in the quiet. Because I’m not sure what’s scarier anymore. The idea that I can’t leave, or the idea that I might not even want to.