Chapter 9
CINDY
Four weeks and three days.
That's how long I've been here, though time moves strangely in this gilded cage.
Some days feel like hours when Leo's laughter fills the air or when Luka's eyes find mine across a room.
Other days stretch like months, especially when I catch myself forgetting this isn't really my home, that I'm not really free.
Thirty-one days of watching Luka move through his empire with lethal grace. Thirty-one nights of pretending my body doesn't hum when he's near, that my skin doesn't remember every place he's touched.
Ignoring the way his presence seems to electrify the very air I breathe.
I’m screwed up.
That has to be it.
I’m drawn to him.
Like now, I’m in search of my captor. The one who makes me scream with pleasure and makes me want to scream with frustration.
Love-hate doesn’t begin to describe what I feel for the asshole.
I stand in the doorway of the training room, arms crossed, watching as Luka fastens Leo's small hands into worn boxing gloves that look ridiculous on his five-year-old body. The boy's face is bright with excitement. He bounces on the balls of his feet.
Clearly, he’s done this before.
Luka is wearing a tank top and sweats. I have to fight the urge to purr. I actually feel like purring and rubbing against him.
His arms are thick. Muscled. The veins through his biceps and forearms do something to me I can’t explain. His back is broad and just as muscled.
"Keep your thumb outside the fist," Luka instructs.
I refuse to acknowledge the way his voice excites me. Like he’s physically touching me.
"You break it inside; you're useless,” he continues.
Leo giggles, throwing a wild haymaker at the heavy bag that barely moves it an inch. The sound of his laughter echoes off the concrete walls. It’s so pure and innocent in a way that seems impossible in this place of shadows and secrets.
But Luka doesn't crack a smile.
Not once.
His jaw remains set, his focus absolute as he adjusts Leo's stance with gentle but firm hands.
"MMA taught me discipline," Luka continues, demonstrating a basic jab.
His movements are fluid. The comfort in the gym speaks to years of training and real violence.
"Every fight starts before you step into the cage. It's in here." He taps his temple. "And here." His fist moves to his chest, over his heart.
There's something mesmerizing about watching him with Leo. Something that makes my ovaries hum. This dangerous man, who commands fear and respect from hardened criminals, is patiently teaching a child the fundamentals of combat. The contrast is jarring, beautiful in its contradiction.
"Papa, were you scared your first fight?" Leo asks, pausing mid-punch.
Luka's hands are still on the boy's shoulders. For a moment, something flickers across his features—vulnerability, maybe, or memory. "Fear keeps you alive," he says. "But you don't let it control you. You use it."
The conversation continues, but my attention drifts to the man himself.
The way his black tank stretches across his broad shoulders.
I’m drawn to where his tattoos peek out from beneath the fabric.
All intricate designs that tell stories I'm not privy to yet.
There are a few scars I've wondered about.
Battle wounds from a life I can barely comprehend.
Thirty minutes later, I can see Leo is exhausted. I’m about to step in, like I’m his mom or something, when Luka calls it.
“Good job, son. Go get some water and your snack.”
Luka removes the gloves from his hands.
Leo grins at me. “Did you see me, Cindy? I killed that bag!”
“Yeah, you did. You’re the toughest five-year-old I’ve ever seen.”
He runs out of the gym to get his snack.
Luka puts away the gloves and pretty much ignores me.
As usual.
"Where's Leo's mother?" The question tumbles out before I can stop it.
I watch the transformation happen in real-time. Every muscle in Luka's body locks down, his expression shifting from engaged to carved stone between one heartbeat and the next. It's like watching armor snap into place.
"She's gone." Each word drops like a stone into still water.
But I catch something else in his eyes—a flash of rage so pure it makes me step back. Not at me. At her. At the woman who should have protected Leo and chose not to.
"Gone like dead, or gone like abandoned him?" I press, even though every instinct screams at me to drop it.
His jaw works like he's chewing glass. "Does it matter? Gone is gone. Leo is mine. That's all you need to know."
Except it's not. Because I see that little boy flinch when women raise their voices. See how he hoards food in his room like someone who's been hungry before. See the scars on his back that no child should carry.
"It matters," I say quietly. "Because he still wakes up afraid she'll come back."
The words hit their mark. Luka's mask cracks, just for a second, showing something raw underneath. "She won't. I made sure of that."
The certainty in his voice tells me everything I need to know. Leo's mother is the kind of gone you don't come back from.
It’s weird. I know it’s weird. I know Leo isn’t Luka’s biological son. Did he kidnap him? That seems like a huge burden to take on just for fun. And there’s no denying Luka loves that boy and vice versa.
“Are we going anywhere today?” I ask.
“No.”
His clipped answers—and the fact he’s not looking at me—tells me he doesn’t want me around.
Message received.
I leave the gym and make my way to the kitchen. The nanny is there, getting Leo fixed up with some apple slices and chocolate milk.
I join him, choosing to munch on some cheese and crackers for our mid-morning snack.
"Come on, Leo," I say, after finishing our snacks. "Want to help me in the garage? I've got some tools that need cleaning."
The boy's face brightens immediately. "Really? Can I use the cool rags?"
"The coolest rags," I promise.
The garage is my sanctuary in this place. Surrounded by engines and tools and the familiar smell of motor oil and metal, I can almost pretend I'm back in my old life.
Almost.
Leo and I spend most of our days together. When he does his schoolwork with the nanny, I usually end up in the garage. I don’t have anything to fix, but I’ve noticed a few of the guards park their cars in the garage. They’ve asked me to take a look.
I don’t know if Luka told them to do it or if they really need the work done.
Either way, it works for me.
Unfortunately, there are no cars to work on today.
Leo chatters beside me as I hand him a clean rag and show him how to properly clean a wrench.
"Cindy?"
"Yeah, kiddo?"
"Are you staying forever?"
The question hits me like a physical blow.
I freeze, the socket wrench clenched in my hands.
Forever. As if forever is something I have any control over anymore.
As if my future is anything more than a series of choices made by other people.
Powerful people who view me as a commodity rather than a person.
I’m collateral.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
"I don't know," I answer honestly, because lying to children feels like a special kind of cruelty. "Would you want me to?"
He nods vigorously, smearing grease across his cheek. "Dad seems less angry when you're here. And you make really good pancakes."
Less angry. Christ, if this is Luka on his best behavior, I can't imagine what he's like when he's truly unleashed. But Leo's observation settles something in my chest, a warmth I don't want to examine too closely.
Like belonging.
I’ve never belonged. Never truly had a family. I had my mom, but with her troubles and then her illness that took her away, I never had that stability that came from having a family.
A real home.
This isn’t a home. Not for me. Luka has done a great job making it a home for Leo, but I don’t fit.
Leo doesn’t need to know all of that. “It’s beautiful here,” I say. “I like it.”
“Me too.”
That evening, I find myself in Leo's room, the boy tucked beneath dinosaur-print sheets, clutching a stuffed tiger that's seen better days. The book in my hands is worn. It’s the same story about a knight and a dragon that Leo has already memorized, but still insists on hearing.
I can pretty much read the book without looking at the words.
"And the knight said to the dragon," I read and then clear my throat. I deliver the performance of a lifetime. "We don't have to be enemies." I use my dragon voice. The one Leo absolutely loves.
My princess voice is all high and flowery.
"Do you think that's true?" Leo asks, his voice sleepy. "That enemies can be friends?"
"Sometimes," I answer, thinking of the man who brought me here against my will. The man I should hate but find myself drawn to with increasing intensity. "Sometimes people just need to understand each other better."
I'm aware of him before I see him. It’s an electric current that sizzles between us. I know I could find him in a crowd of a thousand people with my eyes closed.
I glance toward the doorway and there he is, leaning against the frame, arms crossed, watching us with an expression I can't quite read. In the dim light of Leo's bedside lamp, his features are softer somehow, more human.
There's something in his face as he watches me read to his son. There’s the usual protectiveness, but something else.
An emotion so raw and unguarded that it makes my heart skip a beat. This is what he's been missing, I realize. Not just someone to care for Leo, but someone to love him. The distinction feels important, though I'm not sure why.
When Leo's breathing evens out in sleep, I carefully extract myself from the bed and slip past Luka into the hallway. He follows, his footsteps silent behind me.
"Thank you," he says when we're out of earshot.
The words stop me cold. I turn to face him, anger flaring hot and sudden in my chest. "Don't." The word comes out sharper than intended. "Don't thank me for doing what your men can't.”
He frowns. “I don’t understand.”
“Love him. They protect him, and I will too, but I love him. I love that little boy, Luka. You have to decide what you’re doing with me because this… this is going to hurt. Not just me. Him. Kill me. Give me back.”
Keep me.
His eyes flash, something dangerous sparking there.
"That boy in there needs more than protection and training and whatever else you think constitutes care. He needs someone who gives a damn about more than just keeping him alive."
The air between us crackles with tension. Luka takes a step closer.
I’ve gone too far.
I have no business telling him how to raise this child he has somehow found to be in his care.
"You think you know what he needs?" His voice is low, almost a whisper.
"I know what every child needs. Love. Stability. Someone who isn't afraid to be vulnerable with them."
"Vulnerable." He spits the word like it tastes bitter. "Vulnerability is a luxury I can't afford."
"It's not a luxury," I fire back. "It's what makes us human."
He's closer now, close enough that I can feel his breath laced with liquor washing over me. My back hits the wall with a soft thud. Suddenly, he's there, caging me in with his body.
I swallow.
The last time, he had me pushed me up against a wall in a hallway and fucked me until I saw stars.
He leans in. His nose is close to mine. His lips don’t touch mine, but they’re right there. I can feel his chest rising and falling, brushing against my breasts. I realize he’s fighting for control.
This could be very, very bad for me.
I’ve pushed him too far.
“Fuck me or kill me,” I murmur.
He leans in, his face buried in the crook of my neck, and just... breathes. His hands are pressed against the door on either side of my head, his body a cage of heat and tension.
"You're going to ruin me," he whispers against my skin.
The words are so quiet I almost miss them.
My heart hammers against my ribs. This is it—the moment that's been building since he last touched me. The tension that's been coiling tighter and tighter every time we're in the same room.
But something is wrong. The world tilts slightly, my vision swimming at the edges. I blink hard, trying to focus, but the dizziness only intensifies.
"I..." I start to say, but the words feel thick on my tongue.
Luka pulls back immediately, his eyes sharp with concern. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," I lie, pressing a hand to my forehead. "Just tired."
He studies my face for a long moment. I can see the war playing out in his expression—desire warring with concern, the predator in him recognizing weakness. But then he steps back, giving me space to breathe.
"Get some rest," he says.
There's something almost gentle in his voice.
Hours later, I lie awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling as my mind races. The dizziness has passed, but something else has taken its place—a creeping realization that makes my blood run cold.
When was my last period?
I count backward, my heart sinking with each passing day. Three weeks. No, four. Maybe five. Shit, how long has it been since I've had to think about something so normal, so routine? Time moves differently here.
But I know. Deep in my bones, in that primal way women have always known, I know.
Terror floods my system, cold and paralyzing.