Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Samulin woke feeling uneasy. Something was off.
This wasn’t the standard hangover; no nausea, no light sensitivity, and no little demons hammering the inside of her skull—only the sandpapery eyelids, and the dry mouth, no doubt from sleeping with her mouth open.
But the bed just felt wrong, and for a moment she wondered if she’d made the mistake of going home with the sexy stranger she’d met at the club the night before. And then she realized that it was worse—she’d invited him into hers.
And she was naked.
At the realization, she sat up abruptly, her heart kicking into a gallop.
She was not in a bed, but was lying on the duvet from her bed heaped in a kind of pallet on the floor.
A collar, at first feel some kind of padded faux leather, circled her neck, and running a finger underneath she found it to be snug, but not tight.
She panicked a little when she couldn’t undo the buckle with her fingers.
Matching black padded cuffs with D-rings circled her wrists; she was relieved not to find them restrained, but was that because her abductor thought there was no possibility for escape, or because she’d woken earlier than intended?
She took stock of her surroundings, and her stomach sank when she saw that she was certainly not in her apartment anymore.
The space, possibly an abandoned warehouse, was utilitarian, with stacked crates forming a labyrinth around the cleared floor space she currently inhabited.
The crates were stacked nearly as tall as her head, but a cleared corridor had been left between a high, narrow bed and the exit.
The bed looked more like a massage or therapy table, or could possibly belong in some kinky Dom’s basement.
Off to one side was a strangely designed toilet, and a short distance away, a pipe frame with cables, hoses and other attachments beside a large, boxy machine. She’d seen a plasma CNC machine on a Youtube video cut out thousands of machine parts once, and this looked something like that.
She hugged herself, covering her breasts.
She didn’t want to hang around for whoever had brought her here, or become another human trafficking statistic, so she wrapped her duvet around herself, the folds of fabric drowning her and dragging behind her, then headed in the direction of the crates to explore—maybe one of the crates would contain more bedding, or perhaps some clothes?
The door slid open with a smooth whisper, and the silhouette in the doorway made Samulin’s pulse stagger up a gear. His deep voice in that harsh accent prompted her to flee—but her pussy remembered him from the night before and demanded a repeat performance, or at the very least, a second look.
“S-stay away from me!” Samulin stuttered, feeling light-headed with adrenaline when he approached her. Every muscle tense, she half-crouched, prepared for if he were to try to grab at her.
He paused a few feet away from her, weight balanced on both feet, thumbs tucked into the front pockets of his pants. He studied her with those bright green eyes and just appeared to… wait—for something.
Trembling, she watched him warily, but then her common sensed whispered to her.
If he wanted to, he could lunge at her right now, and even if she didn’t trip over the duvet she was wrapped in, he would very likely catch her with little to no effort.
Besides, if he’d wanted to hurt her, he could have done so at any time during the night that she’d been helpless and asleep—or when he’d been balls-deep inside her the night before.
The moment her shoulders relaxed and she let out a small, relieved sigh, he relaxed as well. “Samulin,” he said firmly, her name in his heavy accent making her pussy remember why she’d invited him home the night before. He pointed at the floor in front of his feet. “Dhavedad”
She frowned. “What?”
Frustration flashed across his expression, but he just repeated the command, and when she didn’t react, his hand shot out to her, snagging her by the collar, and jerking her the three feet closer toward him.
“Dhavedad. Laaft.” She lost her hold on the blanket and had barely regained her balance, when he used the collar and her momentum to make her kneel at his feet.
He stroked her hair gently. “Veine groone.”
Her jaw went slack; first at her pussy’s reaction to this casual man-handling of her, then at the audacity to order her around in single word sentences. “Did you just order met to sit, like a dog?” She tried to get to her feet, but his hand on her shoulder kept her on her knees.
“Laaft.”
“Fuck you!” Samulin growled and tried to stand again, and when he pressed down on her shoulder with his hand again, she cocked her fist and punched him as hard as she could in his balls, which were conveniently at eye-level and arm’s length to her.
Bralix’s knees folded, and he landed on his knees before her with a dull thud, clutching his crotch.
She wasn’t about to wait for the pissed-off kidnapper’s legs or brain to start working again; she scrambled to her feet and dashed in the opposite direction, unfortunately deeper into the labyrinth rather than in the direction of the door.
Mindful of keeping her footsteps and breathing as quiet as possible while she ran, she dashed through the narrow passages, until she’d almost circled the warehouse floor. When she emerged quietly across from where she’d started, she paused to take stock.
The kidnapper stood with his back to her, absent-mindedly still holding on to his junk. He hadn’t followed, and instead stared intently in the direction she’d gone. He probably knew her escape routes were limited, and instead of chasing her, he was waiting for her to emerge.
Well, he wasn’t looking right at her; she might still have a chance to sneak past him. She tiptoed slowly behind him, trying to stay close to the packed crates and not let movement give her away.
She’d almost passed him when he stiffened, then spun around, his hands already reaching for her. Panic lent her speed, and she dashed for the door, narrowly escaping his grasping fingers.
He swore behind her as she burst into a corridor, and the very alienness of the corridor almost made her pause. This was not the typical warehouse—if it wasn’t so improbable, she’d say she was on a spaceship instead.
No, don’t be ridiculous, she scolded herself, even as she picked a direction and urged her feet to go faster; she had a kidnapper to outrun. You’re probably in the bowels of some airport somewhere. Just get out of here.
She slipped into the first open door she could find and stumbled to a halt when she found two naked lovers in bed. The dark-haired man sat on the edge of the mattress holding the brunette straddling his lap close, and Samulin had obviously interrupted a tender moment.
“Please, you’ve got to help me—I’ve been kidnapped!”
“What?” the woman stared at her.
“Please! This Russian guy kidnapped me—probably for human trafficking.” She paused as a more frightening idea occurred to her. “Oh shit—are you Russian too? Please, I don’t want to end up in a brothel somewhere!”
“Oh shit,” Emery muttered.
The man shook his head, then took a deep breath. “Bralix!”
She sensed Bralix come up behind her, and with her escape cut off, she just knew she’d lost. She flinched when he laid a large, warm hand on the nape of her neck, his fingers threading through her hair, and she squeezed her eyes shut in defeat.
“Bralix, have you completely lost your mind?” The woman scolded her captor, wrapping a bedsheet around herself as she stomped over to them. She snagged Samulin’s wrist and tugged her out of Bralix’s grip, then towed her to the far corner of the room. “You can’t just kidnap humans!”
He retorted in his own language—Samulin was no longer convinced it was Russian—but the woman just squared her shoulders.
“I don’t care. Go put her back where you found her.”
His expression grew stubborn, and just then she noticed that green tattoos framed his brow, temples and jawline.
The other man stood and turned in Bralix’s direction, completely unbothered by his nudity, and Samulin gasped at the green shading along the man’s shoulders and spine.
It wasn’t the extent of these markings that surprized her, nor the fact that it was a vibrant green, but that the tattoos seemed alive, similar to the camouflaging ability of some octopuses she’d seen on nature documentaries.
“Oh shit,” she whispered, turning her eyes to the woman who’d generously shared her bedsheet by wrapping it around the both of them. “They’re not human.”