Chapter 2
CINDY
Ijerk my arm back, but his grip doesn't budge. "Let go of me."
"Walk," he repeats, making me feel like I'm a dog that needs training.
"Fuck you." I dig my heels in, but he's already moving toward the bay door, dragging me along like I weigh nothing. My work boots scrape against concrete as I try to plant myself, but damn, he's much stronger. "I'm not going anywhere with you."
He doesn't respond. Just keeps calmly walking while I struggle beside him like a fish on a hook. We reach his Mustang, and it’s even prettier up close. He opens the passenger door with his free hand.
The leather interior is pristine. Black with red stitching. My mechanic's brain catalogues every detail automatically. The original gauges, the Hurst shifter, the original dashboard.
"Get in." His voice is still that same deadly quiet.
"No." But even as I say it, I'm looking past him toward the garage.
Charles is standing there, just behind Drew, both watching.
Not moving. Not protesting. Anna has her phone out like she's recording this for her Instagram story.
Drew is holding his ribs, but he's smirking through the blood on his face.
None of them are coming to help me.
"I can put you in the car, or you can get in yourself," Luka says. "Your choice."
I look at his face. It’s the picture of indifference. Like struggling means death, and he couldn't care less. Suddenly I'm tired of fighting a battle I can't win. At least not here, not now.
"Fine." I slide into the passenger seat. "But this is kidnapping, you know that, right?"
He closes the door without answering and walks around to the driver's side. His large body fills the space. He turns the key, and I nearly have an orgasm.
Good god.
It’s cherry. Meaning, it is a sweet engine in great condition.
I want to run my hands over the dash and tell the car she’s a good girl. Even scared shitless, I can't help but appreciate the sound.
We pull out of the garage lot. No squealing tires. No burning rubber. Like he’s picked me up for a date and we’re on our way out.
I watch my life disappear in the side mirror. Luka doesn’t appear to be in a hurry at all.
The Miami sun beats down on the tourists clogging the streets of Sunny Isle Beach. I could roll down the window and call out for help.
But what good would it do?
I tell myself I'll figure this out. I'll find a way out of whatever mess Charles has dragged me into. Maybe when we stop for gas or at a red light, I can jump out and run. I'm fast. I'm smart. I can handle this.
But as the buildings get smaller and the traffic thins out, my hopes for escape dwindle.
And that’s when real fear creeps in. We're leaving the city. That can’t be good.
The Boss 429's engine purrs as we hit the highway.
Under different circumstances, like, say, if I wasn't being kidnapped, I'd be in heaven right now.
This car has been my dream ride since I was sixteen and first saw one at a classic car show.
The raw power, the perfect lines, the way it sounds like controlled violence.
I dreamed of getting to ride in one, but I didn’t think it would be against my will.
“So, yeah, I’m not sure what the deal is, but you can let me out here.”
He doesn’t even look at me.
Just keeps driving.
“Do you want to tell me where we’re going?”
He tenses his jaw.
“No.”
“Are you going to kill me?
I figure there’s no harm in asking. If he’s going to, who am I going to tell?
“Do you want me to kill you?”
His deep baritone washes over me.
I pretend to think about it. “No, thank you.”
Ten minutes later, we’re pulling through heavy iron gates. It doesn’t exactly look like a murdery place, but since I’ve never been murdered, I don’t know what that would look like.
He pulls to a stop in front of a mansion.
I’m in a tropical paradise.
“Get out,” he orders.
I have no idea what’s happening, but I do as he says. He gestures toward the front door, indicating he wants me in front of him.
I barely have a chance to look around the massive foyer. “Follow me,” he orders.
The room he leads me to is bigger than my entire apartment.
The windows face the backyard. Yard isn’t the right word.
It looks like a park. Bigger than a park.
Manicured gardens and a pool that belongs in a resort brochure.
The bed could sleep four people comfortably.
There's even a sitting area with leather chairs.
“Now what?” I ask.
"Don't leave," Luka says from the doorway. His voice carries that same quiet authority that made Drew's face meet his fist. "Don't lie."
He turns to leave.
"Wait, that's all you're going to—"
The door shuts. The lock clicks.
I'm alone.
I stand there for a full minute, staring at the closed door. This has to be some elaborate prank. But he doesn’t come back.
I sink onto the edge of the bed and look around my cell.
None of this makes sense.
I get up and start pacing. From the window to the door and back again. My work boots are silent on the thick Persian rug.
Why am I here? What does Luka Markovic want with me?
The missing payment. That has to be it. I've heard enough whispered conversations through my earbuds to piece together that Charles owes money to some very dangerous people. Big money. The kind that gets you disappeared when you can't pay it back.
But why take me? I'm not family. Not really. Just some stray Charles picked up when the state needed a place to dump me. I don't have access to any money. I can barely afford groceries most months.
Unless I'm collateral.
Charles traded me to settle his debt. His foster daughter for whatever he owes the Russian mob.
"Fucking coward," I mutter to the empty room.
I shouldn't be surprised. Charles has never put me first. Never put me anywhere but last. Why would he change now?
“Joke’s on you, asshole,” I say to the closed door. “I’m not worth five dollars to them.”
It would be funny if it weren’t so dire.
I'm not chained, but I might as well be. Those two simple rules—don't leave, don't lie—they're a leash I can't slip.
I know enough about what happens to people who break Luka Markovic's rules. I saw what he did to Drew. And now I’m here.
For how long?
How much money does Charles owe?
Is it money?
I walk to the door and try the handle. Shocker—it doesn’t open.
I walk back to the wall and stare out the window. There’s an L-shaped pool to the left. A huge, covered patio area and another covered walkway that disappears into the trees.
I can see a tall fence, which tells me the entire place is probably fenced in.
A prison.
Two hours later, a knock breaks the silence.
The lock clicks. Luka fills the doorway, still handsome and still in control, though he's lost the jacket he wore earlier. The black dress shirt is rolled up at the sleeves, revealing strong forearms.
"Dinner. Now."
I look up from where I've been sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed. "I'm not hungry."
"I said now."
"And I said I'm not hungry." I don't move from my spot on the floor. "What are you going to do, force-feed me?"
He crosses the room in three strides, grabs my arm, and pulls me to my feet. Not rough, but not gentle either. "Don't test me."
I want to dig my heels in again, but something in his voice tells me I've pushed as far as I'm going to get today. I let him guide me out of the room and down a hallway lined with expensive-looking art.
The dining room is straight out of a magazine. A massive table that could seat twelve, but only two places are set, at opposite ends, like we're negotiating a peace treaty. Candles flicker in a straight line down the center of the table.
It feels a little over the top.
I slide into the chair he indicates, my outfit looking ridiculous amidst the luxury. A woman I didn't see before sets a plate in front of me. Steak, perfectly cooked. Roasted vegetables. Some kind of potato thing that smells incredible.
My stomach betrays me with a loud growl.
I skipped lunch today.
Nothing new there.
Luka moves to sit at the head of the table. I wait and watch as he picks up his fork and knife. I really want to say something, but the steak smells so damn good.
I need my strength to fight. That means I need to eat.
I dig in. It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten steak.
I can’t help but moan when the meat practically melts in my mouth. I take another bite, and then another.
And then, I feel him staring at me.
I realize I’m stuffing my face.
Humiliation floods through me. I’m acting like I did twenty years ago. An image of me literally starving before my social worker rescued me from the first foster family. She took me to McDonald’s. I ate three Big Macs. I went from emaciated to fat in the span of a year.
Food was used to torture me.
It’s taken me a long time to develop a healthy relationship with food in my life. To realize it isn’t always a weapon or a control tactic.
It took even longer to lose the weight and learn how to eat right.
I reach for the napkin and dab at my mouth, hyperaware of every movement. My shoulders tense, waiting for it—the comment about my appetite, the look of disgust, the subtle push of the plate away from me. Drew's voice echoes in my head: "Jesus, Cindy, you eat like a starved dog."
Luka stares at me for a long second. I see him catalog everything—the way I hunched over my plate protectively, how quickly I ate, and the defensive set of my jaw. His eyes narrow slightly, but not with disgust. It's recognition.
"When did you last eat?" His voice is neutral, careful.
"Breakfast." The lie comes automatically.
"Yesterday's breakfast." It's not a question. He knows. Somehow, he knows. "Maria," he calls without looking away from me. "Bring bread. And water."
The housekeeper appears like magic, setting down a basket of warm rolls and a pitcher of water with lemon slices floating like pale moons.
"Eat slower," he says, returning to his own meal. "You'll make yourself sick."
There's no judgment in it. Just fact. Like he's been where I am—so hungry that your body forgets how to process abundance. I force myself to slow down, to taste instead of just swallow. The bread is still warm, soft as clouds. I've never had bread this good.
It should be awkward, this silence between captor and captive. Instead, it feels like understanding.
I hate that some part of me relaxes in a way I haven't in longer than I can remember.
"So," I say finally, setting down my fork. "What's happening here? I appreciate the meal, but can I go now?"
He doesn't look up from his plate. "No."
I sigh. “And how long am I stuck here?”
“As long as it takes.”
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting."
I lean back in my chair, studying his face in the candlelight. He really is a handsome man. Square jaw. High cheekbones. Pretty eyes.
"I need clothes. I can't wear these forever." I gesture to my grease-stained jeans and tank top.
"That will be arranged."
Panic seeps into my voice as I plead, “His name is Mac. He's at my apartment, and there's no one to take care of him. I. Need. My. Dog.”
"No."
"No?" My voice cracks. "He'll die. I will be your hostage, but not without my dog.”
"I said no."
I stand so fast my chair scrapes against the floor. "You can't just leave him there! He's all I have! He's—" My voice breaks completely. "He's the only thing that's ever been just mine. He’s my family."
For the first time since we sat down, Luka looks directly at me. Really looks. I see something flicker there. Not sympathy exactly, but... recognition, maybe.
"Please." The word tastes sour. I don't beg. Ever. But this is Mac. "I won't give you a hard time. I won't fight you or try to escape or cause problems. Just... please, don't let him suffer because of whatever Charles did."
Finally, he nods once, sharp and decisive.
"Fine. He’ll get the dog."
The relief hits me so hard I have to sit back down. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." He goes back to his steak. "You just agreed to behave. I'll hold you to that."
“Thank you.”
"You're not a prisoner. But you're mine. Do you understand?"
The words send a chill down my spine. Not fear exactly, but something else.
I’ve been claimed.
“There will be clothes in your room when you return,” he says.
“My clothes?”
“Yes.”
An hour later, he has one of his guards escort me to my room. He closes the door behind him, but I don’t hear the lock.
I walk to the door and try it.
To my surprise, it opens.
There’s a guard a few feet away.
I smile and close the door.
Not exactly free, but at least I’m not locked in.
I notice the door to the closet is open. When I turn on the light, I freeze.
The closet is filled with clothes. I step forward and grab one of the new pairs of jeans.
My size.
I check the rest of the things: shirts, sweaters, and even a few dresses.
All new. The tags are still attached.
“What the hell?”
After taking advantage of the amazing shower and slipping into a pair of new panties and silky pajamas, I climb into bed.
I close my eyes and take it all in.
Why does being stolen feel safer than home ever did?