Chapter 5
ANNA
Ijolted awake and for just a moment—a breath, a heartbeat—it was all a dream.
All of it. The man with the tattoos and Russian accent coming into my store, cornering me in the back room, apologizing as he confirmed I was a target because of my mother.
A dream. A nightmare. Not real.
Then I reached down and felt an unfamiliar texture beneath my fingers. Not my bed. The mattress was wrong—too firm, the surface slick and cool.
I wasn't in my apartment above the music store at all.
Slowly, I closed my eyes and then opened them again, like the scene around me would change and I'd be back in my bed.
I didn't move.
It wasn't my soft cotton sheets beneath my fingertips, but the cool, smooth leather of a couch—expensive, buttery-soft, the kind that cost more than three months' rent.
It wasn't the scent of my favorite candle and wood polish that filled my lungs. Instead, faint whiffs of a man's cologne lingered in the air.
My pulse quickened, and it became harder to breathe as I stilled, listening for anything, anyone.
There was a low hum of city traffic in the distance but that was it.
No footsteps.
No voices.
Just the whisper of my own shallow breathing.
The room slowly came into focus.
Floor-to-ceiling windows with blackout curtains in a deep charcoal gray that pooled on the floor like spilled ink.
Dim, gold-tinted afternoon sunlight glowed from the top edge where the curtains didn't quite meet the ceiling.
A modern fireplace flickered behind frosted glass, throwing a warm light across the sleek cream walls and the black glass coffee table, positioned in the center of a lush black rug that looked like it had never been walked on.
The room was clearly luxurious, but impersonal.
Modern and sleek, yet unisex. Cold. Unfeeling.
A hotel suite.
No other explanation existed—no personal touches, no lived-in feel, no photographs or clutter or anything that suggested someone actually lived here.
It was aesthetically perfect with its minimalist design and every detail whispering wealth. Black fixtures, crystal decanters on the bar cart, and art that looked deliberately expensive but altogether void of emotion. Abstract splashes of color that meant nothing.
The man—the Russian man who came into my store—hadn't been a dream.
He had caged me against the shelf, his body heat searing through my clothes, and then somehow knocked me out and kidnapped me.
How long have I been out?
I glanced down at my wrists, and then my ankles, checking for restraints—zip ties, rope, handcuffs, anything. Nothing. I wasn't tied up or bound in any way. Either he knew I couldn't escape, or he had underestimated how long I would be unconscious.
Either way, I needed to go.
Now.
Slowly, I rolled off the couch, my muscles protesting, stiff and achy. I crouched down next to it, making myself small, and tried to creep toward the door at the far end near the bar.
My bare feet were silent on the plush rug—when did I lose my shoes?—but my breath sounded too loud in the quiet room.
"And where do you think you're going, maya soloveyka?"
The deep, seductive masculine voice cut through the silence and I froze.
He stepped from the shadowed corner of the room—how long had he been standing there, watching me sleep?—and my stomach dropped at the sight of him.
I pushed to my feet and stumbled back, my ankle rolling slightly as I slammed my back against the wall near the fireplace. The cool plaster bit into my shoulder blades.
One quick look to the side confirmed the fireplace was gas, controlled by a switch somewhere. There wasn't a fire poker or any other tools I could use to protect myself. Nothing sharp. Nothing heavy. Nothing.
The man took a slow, measured step forward, his movements predatory, controlled. Then he stopped, turning toward the bar cart as if he had all the time in the world.
As if I wasn't pressed against the wall like a cornered animal.
He said nothing as he turned a lowball glass upright, the crystal catching the firelight, and dropped a few ice cubes from the silver bucket into it. The sound of ice clinking against glass was obscenely loud.
His movements were deliberate, unhurried. Then he lifted an unopened bottle of water, making a point of showing it to me, turning it so I could see the unbroken seal, before twisting the cap with a sharp crack and filling the glass.
"You must be thirsty.”
He was right, my mouth was dry as sand and my lips felt like they would crack. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, thick and useless.
But I wasn't stupid.
It was a trap.
Maybe the water was clean, but that didn't mean the glass wasn't laced with something, or perhaps the ice. Or maybe the water itself, and the bottle was just for show. He took a few steps toward me and offered the glass.
I didn't move.
I wasn't moving from that spot. My palms pressed against the cool wall. My fingers splayed wide, trying to find purchase, as if I could somehow melt into the plaster and disappear.
Leaning against the wall, I let it brace me so I could control the trembling pushing through my body—my legs, my hands, even my jaw wanted to shake. I was terrified, but I didn't need to show him.
There were too many men in the world who got off on terrifying women.
It made them feel important and powerful. I knew better than to give him the satisfaction. I'd learned that lesson a long time ago.
The man held the glass out to me for a few more moments. His arm extended, patient, like he was coaxing a feral cat. Then he rolled his eyes like I was the one being unreasonable, before lifting the glass to his lips and taking a long, deliberate sip, his throat working as he swallowed.
"See, it's perfectly fine." He lowered the glass, his gaze never leaving mine. "Now drink."
I still didn't move. I didn't trust it, didn't trust him. Didn't trust the way he was looking at me like I was something he was cataloging, memorizing.
He moved closer, eating up the distance between us in two strides, his presence filling the small space until the air itself seemed to hum with it. With him. That cologne, that heat, the sheer size of him blocking out everything else.
I tried to shrink down further into the wall, but there was nowhere for me to go. I was trapped as he placed his forearm against the wall above my head, caging me in with his body.
His other hand still held the glass, condensation beading on the crystal, a drop of water sliding down the side.
Tension rolled off of him in slow, deliberate waves.
He lifted the crystal glass to my mouth, the rim cool and wet as he pressed it to my bottom lip. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough that I felt the threat.
"Drink."
It wasn't a request.
I hesitated just long enough to see the challenge flash in his eyes. A small part of him wanted me to disobey, so he could force the water down my throat. So he'd have an excuse to touch me, to put his hands on me again.
He wanted the fight.
I wasn't about to give him one.
When the crystal pressed into my bottom lip, I opened my mouth and let him pour the cold, refreshing water in, the shock of it making me gasp. It instantly quenched my thirst and soothed the dry, scratchy feeling in my throat, the relief so acute it was almost painful.
He held the glass there, tilting it slowly, carefully, letting me drink deeply. Even as my eyes closed—stupid, stupid, never close your eyes—I could feel him watching me, studying me.
His gaze like a physical touch on my face, my throat, watching me swallow.
When the water was gone and the ice clattered against my front teeth, he took the glass away. A single drop clung to my bottom lip.
His gaze lowered, staring at my mouth, and I was tempted to let my tongue sweep over my lip. But I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think past the way he was looking at me.
The way he was staring at my mouth made my heart race and my knees weaken for all the wrong reasons.
It wasn't just fear. There was something else, something darker, seductive, coloring the moment. Heat pooled low in my belly even as my brain screamed at me to run, to fight, to do something.
He leaned in just a fraction of an inch, close enough his breath fluttered over my lips, warm and steady, and then, without thinking, I licked away the drop of water.
His pupils dilated.
The tip of his own tongue traced his upper lip, slow and deliberate, and the memory slammed into me of his tongue tracing the teardrop from my cheek. The wet heat of it, the shock, the wrongness that somehow felt—
No.
A warm, unwanted need built in my core, liquid and traitorous.
My hands and my legs trembled as reality crashed back—where I was and what this man had already done to me.
Kidnapped me.
Threatened me.
Put his hands on me, his mouth on my skin.
I couldn't fall under his spell. I needed to stay focused and find a way out of this room and away from this man.
Before I destroyed myself trying to get closer to the flame.
"Why?" I asked, not bothering to hide the shaking in my voice. I wasn’t sure I could even if I wanted to.
"Why?" he repeated, his eyes still focused on my lips, making them tingle with awareness. Like he could touch me without touching me, like his gaze alone was enough to burn.
"Why did you take me? What do you want?" I asked again, forcing the words past the tightness in my throat, ignoring the charged energy between us that thickened and heated the air.
"I need something from you, maya soloveyka," he answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
As if kidnapping was just another Tuesday afternoon.
He lifted his hand and I tensed, every muscle coiled tight, ready to bolt even though there was nowhere to run.
He stroked his knuckle over my cheek, the touch featherlight, almost gentle, and I tried to flinch away from him, but there was nowhere to go.
The wall pressed into my spine, cold and unforgiving.
He ran his palm down my throat, briefly resting his fingertips against my pulse point before brushing my hair away from my neck, smoothing the purple strands behind my shoulder.
The way he stared at the delicate column of my throat, the way his thumb traced along my collarbone with a possessive slowness…my skin prickled, my body flooded with awareness.
Electric, unwanted, terrifying.
This was what they meant when they said the devil was beautiful.
Beautiful and utterly without mercy.
I could barely breathe as he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, his movements deliberate, unhurried. Like he had all the time in the world to destroy me.
My knees trembled, and tears built behind my eyes.
Was he reaching for a gun? A knife? Some instrument of torture he was going to use to make me suffer for his amusement?
Instead, he pulled out a diamond necklace.