CHAPTER 7
I wake up feeling more rested than I have in a week. It’s a terrible feeling. Who sleeps well after such a night?
My red armchair is empty, and I stare at it as I listen for sounds in the apartment. All I hear is the humming of the fridge and faint noises from the street.
I’m alone again.
A voice at the back of my head urges me to get up—take action—but I don’t want to leave the illusory safety of the bed. I want to slip into a void. An emptiness where I can’t feel or remember.
If I lie here long enough, it might happen.
But something else will happen too if I stay here. Gabor has just begun. The STD tests, the contraceptive shot, and not least the words ‘new toy’ are more than enough proof of that.
Fuck. I sit up in bed and look around. How did this even happen?
I’ve always been careful with my submissive proclivities, only hooking up with men I’ve met at clubs and always playing there, yet somehow, I’ve ended up in the clutches of the worst kind of sadist. A cold, calculated one with more power and money than I can even imagine.
I need to get out of here, fast, or I probably never will.
I stumble out of bed and rush to my closet where I keep my suitcase. It pains me that I have to go back home to the hell of my stifling hometown, but it’s my only option, and that’s a nightmare I have a shot at escaping again. If I stay here too long, I have a feeling there’ll be no out.
It only takes me half an hour to get packed and ready. But as I’m in the hall with my suitcase, about to stick a foot in my shoes, I halt.
What the hell am I doing? I can’t just leave like this. Gabor is smart, and I’ll have to be the same if I want any shot at escape. He might well have someone following me. God knows I’ve felt that prickling sensation at the back of my neck too many times lately. If I just waltz out of here with my suitcase in hand, chances are I won’t even make it to the bus before a suited man grabs me and hauls me back—or off to someplace even worse.
Adrenaline pumps through my veins as I slam my suitcase to the floor, open the zipper, and rummage through my things to find the most important ones and stuff them in my shoulder bag.
Then I halt again as I have my foot halfway into my shoe. I need to make this look natural, and the only way to do that is to leave when it’s time to go to work. Keep this inconspicuous.
I slip my foot back out and glance at the clock. Three hours until my shift starts.
Time drags on at a dreadfully slow speed as I pace the space, biting my nails and panting through onsetting panic. I try to keep the anxiety at bay by making a cup of tea, but my hands are so shaky that I spill scalding tea over my skin.
“Fuck,” I hiss as I drop the mug and watch the ceramic shatter into pieces in a pool of tea.
I might as well leave it since I won’t return, but ignoring the mess proves difficult as restlessness refuses to let me sit still. So I end up on my knees, picking up the pieces. Stupid, stupid idea. My hands are no calmer than before, and a shard slips between my fingers and cuts my right palm.
The gash keeps bleeding, and I think I might have to forget about the airport and visit the ER instead. Ten minutes before I have to leave, the bleeding finally subsides, and I wrap a quick, messy bandage around my hand. Then I stagger down the four flights of stairs and thank my unsteady legs for bringing me to solid ground in one piece.
Instead of going to the nearest bus stop, I head toward the river—the same way that brings me to work—and get on a bus two blocks from the restaurant after scanning my surroundings for fishy characters. An hour later, I’m at the airport, still paranoid as hell. My eyes flit around, finding suspicious eyes everywhere I turn. People give me strange looks, but that’s because I act like a schizophrenic. If only that were the case. But I’m afraid I can’t blame my paranoia on insanity anymore.
I haven’t checked the flight schedule or done any sort of planning. I just need to get out of this country. I don’t care where I end up. Well, mostly. I’d prefer to leave Eastern Europe so I don’t risk getting caught in an even more corrupt city where Gabor has reach.
I press the heel of my hand to my head as I step into the line to get a ticket. I might not be schizophrenic, but I am going crazy. Why would Gabor go to such lengths for a mere waitress? I’m nothing. He can easily find his next prey among the many beautiful women in this city. Even so, I’m not taking any chances, so when the lady at the counter tells me there’s a flight for London leaving in forty-five minutes, I nod a bit too eagerly. It’s a considerable detour, and it drains my meager savings, but it’s the quickest way out of here.
I swipe my credit card, grab the ticket, and hurry on to the security checkpoint, praying I’ll make the flight.
I hold my breath as I scan the ticket. The air swooshes out in a relieved sigh when the machine beeps me through, and I feel a bit lighter as I walk through the labyrinth of stanchions and end in a line of six people. Maybe luck has finally decided to smile upon me.
Not wanting to risk a manual search of my bag or arouse suspicion with my fidgety hands, I take slow, deep breaths as I place my electronic devices in a plastic tray and check my pockets twice. Then I push my two trays down the conveyor belt and walk through the metal detector. My frantic heart beats a bit calmer when the guard gives me a clear, and yet a little calmer when my first tray appears. I put on my jacket and return my keys and lip gloss to my pocket, and when the tray with my bag and electronics slides toward me, I can finally breathe freely.
Everything will work out now. I still have half an hour to go—enough time to find the gate while keeping calm. Then I’ll be out of this god-awful country for good.
I reach for my bag, but stop mid-air as someone grabs my arm. Glancing down, I see pudgy fingers wrapped around my jacket. Fear shoots through me, cranking up my heart to a deadly speed. Lifting my eyes, I find a chubby middle-aged man in a blue uniform at my side.
“You have to come with us,” another voice says, and I turn my head in time to see another guard grab my other arm.
“What’s the problem?” I try to remain calm, but my voice is already thin and shaky.
Neither man answers as they drag me away. I stare over my shoulder at my bag. It came through without a hitch. Panic rises in my chest, and I tug at my arms, but the guards don’t budge.
“You can’t just take me away. I have a right to know what this is about.” I yank a little harder. Still no give. So I put in more effort. I’m about to scream, but stop myself when I look up and see people in the crowded terminal staring.
My head falls. I want to die of shame. I’m a law-abiding citizen. I’ve never even gotten a ticket, and now I’m being dragged away like some criminal in an airport full of people. The worst thing, though, is I haven’t done anything wrong.
The guards lead me down a long, secluded hall and shove me into a closed-off room. A stale smell of sweat and urine hits my nose as I stagger across the floor. The door slams behind me, and I stare into the empty room. A table, three metal chairs, and a clock on the wall. That’s all there is. It looks like one of those dingy interrogation rooms in movies, short of the one-way mirror.
I just stand there, staring at the barren room. Slowly, the shock gives way to outrage, and I turn to try the door. Locked. What the hell? They can’t just lock me in here without an explanation.
I try the handle harder. Nothing gives. So I pound my good palm against the door. “Hello. Is someone there?”
Silence.
I fist my hand to bang harder. “Hello?”
Still nothing.
My frustration builds with each second of silence, and soon I’m banging the door with both fists and shouting.
“Let me out! You can’t just keep me in here! I’ve got rights, dammit!” I pound away until the pain in my wounded hand becomes so loud I can’t ignore it. Uncurling my fist, I see a large red spot slowly spreading over the white gauze.
Defeat burns my insides, and my eyes sting with tears. I drop onto a chair and stare at the clock on the wall. In fifteen minutes, my plane leaves. Unless I’m really lucky and someone comes to let me out in a few minutes, I won’t make it.
This is all just some big misunderstanding, I try to tell myself.
Ten minutes pass, and my hope dwindles, but I refuse to accept defeat. If someone comes at this very moment, they might be able to call the gate and hold the flight for me. I rush to the door and pound with my good hand.
“Please, I need to get out of here.”
Still nothing happens. There’s no help—no kind soul to come and get me out.
Ten more minutes pass. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Time moves unbearably slow, second by second, and the clock keeps mocking me with the knowledge that my flight has left.
Another two minutes. Five more. Fifteen more.
Eventually, I stop counting and just sit there, slouched over the table.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The sound keeps intruding upon my consciousness, incessant and loud, and when I look up, the walls keep closing in until it’s hard to breathe. I press my hand to my chest and get up, heaving through the constriction around my lungs as I pace the room like a trapped animal, trying the door every time I pass it. Exhaustion soon has me back at the table, head hanging over my folded arms. Then I’m up, pacing again, then slumping at the table. Time drags on like this in endless circles.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
When the door finally opens, it’s long past dinnertime. I’ve been here for three hours. All alone. Not a single person has had the decency to tell me why I’m here or even come check on me. I feel downright sick with anxiety, my stomach churning, my head pounding.
I turn to see who’s there, and my heart slams to a halt.
Gray eyes stare straight at me. The room shrinks as the man who is my nightmare and my shelter steps inside, commanding the very air with his size and authority. A short, chubby guard walks in on his heels, and he looks like a teacup pig compared to the majestic warrior of a man approaching me.
For the first time, I truly take in his full appearance. Majestic is definitely a good word. His deep brown hair has an undercut, leaving his cold yet somehow beautiful face on full display. There’s a certain hardness to him that witnesses the horrible things he does. It’s in the severe angular lines of his face, the scar that dissects his left brow, and the tattoos snaking out from beneath his suit and bleeding onto his left hand and his neck. Somehow, he carries the terrifying danger with elegance. There’s no hint of anger or violence to prove his power. It lies in the very way he moves—like he’s the apex predator of the open savannah, not bothering to look around for possible dangers. Because he’s the biggest threat of them all.
He stops at my side, and even as I want to shrink beneath him, I feel a bit calmer in his steady presence.
I chance a quick look at his eyes, but they’re too direct to linger on, so I let my gaze fall back down. I pause at the sight of the sunglasses in his breast pocket. Those are the same ones the man at the back of the restaurant wears. The man of the same build, with the same haircut.
“It’s you,” I blurt and run my tongue over my dry lips. I think I’ve known all along, but didn’t dare to acknowledge it.
I’m not paranoid. This man has been watching me, and now here he is, to thrust me back into the nightmare I was just about to escape.
The weight of it all slams into me, and defeat wipes out whatever little strength I have left. I drop my head and stare at my quivering hands in my lap.
I jump when a large hand closes around my jaw. But the touch is gentle as my jailor lifts my head and captures my gaze.
I expect him to shove the defeat deeper into my heart, but there’s no gloating or belittlement. As I stare into those gray orbs, I find that I feel something beyond the tearing hopelessness that has pulled me down for hours. Because what I find in them is not the cold detachment that others might see. It’s stability and strength. Something to lean on as my world crashes.
My eyes go wide and vulnerable as I stare up at him. It’s irrational and reckless, but all I want is to beg this man to take me home—to protect me.
His eyes fall to the bandaged hand in my lap, and for the first time since he came, there’s a crack in his stiff expression. It’s only a tick in his jaw, but it’s there, and it’s menacing.
He shoots a cold look at the guard. “What happened to her hand?” His deep voice rumbles through the room, sending icy shivers down my spine, but a slight stroke on my cheek melts them away as soon as they come. His anger is not directed at me.
The guard replies in a flustered string of words, probably trying to abdicate all responsibility.
The gray eyes soften somewhat as the massive man beside me returns his attention to me. “Did this happen here?”
I shake my head and hear the guard’s relieved breath behind me.
The enormous man shoots off a long string of Hungarian phrases that has the guard responding with a profusely apologetic tone.
With a final warning glance in the guard’s direction, the gray-eyed man moves his hand to my arm and helps me to my feet. Unlike the guards, there’s no force in his touch as he leads me through the long halls. Rather, he seems oddly protective as he presses his hand to the small of my back and guides me along. But again, I’m surely just imagining it. He’s only being nice about it because we both know I’d barely get three feet away if I tried to run.
We end up in a private parking garage, where the massive man guides me to a black SUV with tinted windows. I get in without a word when he opens the back door. I don’t care where he’s taking me as long as it’s out of this airport.
Silence stretches between us before the shock of everything fades enough for me to say something.
“Where are you taking me?” I finally ask, watching him in the rearview mirror. His elegant features and straight nose could belong to a nobleman, but the scar in his eyebrow and the cool gray of his eyes might as well belong to a hardened criminal. Which, I suppose he is.
“Home.”
“Why?”
“Why?” he repeats, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror for the first time.
“Why not lock me up?” I mutter, not really wanting him to hear the question, but also needing an answer.
“Gabor likes to keep things separate.”
“How so?”
“Politics at day, play at night. No toys at home.”
A shuddery breath billows past my lips at the word ‘toy.’ The thing I’m now reduced to. “What’s going to happen to me?”
He doesn’t reply. It’s like he doesn’t even hear the question as he keeps driving without glancing up at the rearview mirror. But I know he did. He heard my muttered words. I guess this is his way of saying ‘No more questions.’