Chapter 8
Aurora
Though my heart hammers as if attempting to break free of my ribs, my mind is clear. I need to play this smart. Think. Plan my escape.
Survive.
Alexei pulls me from the car. Oddly, he averts his gaze as I shimmy my hips and settle the costume’s short skirt back down to cover myself. Like he’s pretending to be a gentleman, though we both know he isn’t one.
The zip tie bites into my skin, but I don’t struggle anymore. Fighting him has gotten me nowhere.
My legs wobble as they take my weight for the first time in what feels like hours. As the blood rushes back to my feet, pins and needles stab me. He steadies me with a firm grip on my elbow, not rough but not gentle either. Just…efficient. Like everything else about him.
A discreet polished steel plaque on the wall catches my eye. KZ PROPERTIES. Nothing else. No indication of what, or who, occupies each floor. I file the name away. If I ever escape, that’s the first thing I’ll tell the police.
No, when I escape.
Not if.
The night might have been a series of cascading mistakes and bad choices, but I refuse to give up. And I still have the six hundred dollars he slipped me, so once I’m free, I can hand those over to the cops for fingerprinting.
At least I have a plan. That’s good.
Now I just need to manage the small feat of escaping. And surviving until then.
Alexei leads me past the sleek public-style elevator to a heavy, unmarked steel door recessed into the wall. He presses his thumb to a scanner beside it. The mechanism clicks and whirs, and the doors slide open, revealing a stark industrial freight elevator.
He gives my back a little push. “Move.”
I stumble inside the oversize elevator clearly designed for furniture or equipment rather than people. My footsteps echo as I retreat to the back wall. In this exposed, vulnerable space, I want a solid surface behind me. He follows, his uncomfortable proximity overwhelming my senses.
He presses the button for the tenth floor, the top level. The doors grind shut with finality. My stomach drops as the elevator lurches upward, and my bound hands scramble for purchase against the wall. Without them for balance, each jolt threatens to sprawl me at his feet.
As we climb, my terror grows.
What waits for me up there?
Iron chains bolted to walls, blood running down in rivulets, distant screams? A modern-day medieval penthouse dungeon? Tables holding trays of torture devices? Thumb screws? Knives? Electrodes? Saws?
All the urban legends about human trafficking and organ harvesting that we joke about at the bar flash through my mind, no longer funny.
I steal a peek at him. He’s statue-still with one hand tucked into his pocket. The other rests at his side, close enough to draw the gun beneath his jacket in a heartbeat.
His expression reveals nothing. No anticipation, no worry, no humanity. Just a mask of blank control.
The elevator jerks to a stop. My heart lodges in my throat.
This is it.
Whatever happens next will likely determine whether I live or die.
Whether I see Samantha again or become another missing person statistic.
If he exits first, could I hit the button for another floor now that he’s activated the system with his thumbprint?
Where would I go? My hands are bound. I have no phone.
I’m wearing heels. I’d never make it out of the building.
As the heavy doors screech open, I’m stunned into stillness.
What lies before me isn’t a dungeon.
Instead, a massive cavernous space greets me.
The ceiling soars at least twenty feet high and features exposed beams and industrial lighting.
Towering floor-to-ceiling windows span the far wall, showcasing the glittering city below like a blanket of stars.
The windows must extend at least forty feet across, making this side of the building primarily glass.
Brick walls painted a soft white enclose the loft, their texture catching the low light.
Smooth, polished concrete floor gleams beneath our feet.
Furniture is scattered here and there, separated by vast empty spaces.
A massive leather sectional here, a dining table that could seat twelve there, what appears to be a workout area in one corner.
The kitchen—if you can call that huge professional monstrosity a kitchen—occupies another corner.
This isn’t what a killer’s lair should look like. This resembles a billionaire’s loft in an architectural magazine.
“Move.” That same quiet command. He’s not careless enough to screw up and leave me alone in here.
I step out of the elevator ahead of him, my heels clicking against the concrete. The sound echoes, emphasizing the enormity of this place. The emptiness and isolation.
Are the torture devices hidden away in the cabinets or a closet somewhere?
He releases my elbow and crosses the expansive floor, gliding with a casual, easy confidence as he switches on a few more low lights. The illumination grows gradually, soft and warm against the darkness outside.
“The windows are reinforced polycarbonate. The floors are ten inches of solid concrete. Soundproofed insulation. No one can hear you.” He offers me that same smile he did right after shooting Benny. “Not even if you scream.”
Somehow, his calm explanation terrifies me more than if he’d shouted or brandished his gun. He doesn’t need to threaten. The facts themselves are the threats.
He inspects my face, then my arms. He’s clinical, assessing. Like a doctor examining a patient.
Or a butcher sizing up meat.
He clucks his tongue. “You have blood on you.”
I peer down at myself. The ridiculous maid costume remains mostly intact, though wrinkled and hiked up higher than it should be.
Dark stains splatter the white apron. Benny’s blood.
The substance is sprinkled over my arms, dried to a rusty brown.
My stomach heaves at the sight, at the memory of Benny dying.
My entire being shudders. “Not by choice.”
He frowns. “You’re not getting my place all messy. Follow me.”
“Oh no, heaven forbid we get the blood of the man you murdered on your precious concrete.”
When he glares, I realize he heard my mumbles.
With a warning shake of his head, he leads me down a hallway to a door that opens into a bathroom that’s larger than my entire apartment.
Slate, steel, and concrete dominate, with a shower stall big enough for eight people and a tub that could double as a small pool.
A single towel hangs on a rack. Dark gray, just like everything else.
I wrinkle my nose. Monochrome much?
Not the colors I would choose to hide blood. Maybe this isn’t the spot where he slices his victims up and pours vinegar over their wounds.
Probably.
He turns the tap, and water thunders into the massive sink. He wets a dark gray washcloth, wrings the fabric out, and holds it out to me.
I stare at the cloth. At him. Wiggle my elbows. “Sweet of you to offer, but I can’t seem to use my hands.”
A flicker of understanding crosses his face. Then annoyance. He sets the washcloth on the counter.
“I’ll remove the restraints. But understand this,” his cold, certain eyes lock with mine, “if you try to run or fight, it won’t end well. There’s nowhere to go. No one to hear you. Just me and my extremely limited patience.”
Throat tightening, I nod in acquiescence, because what other choice do I have?
He positions himself behind me. When his chest grazes my back, awareness pulses through my body.
What the hell is wrong with me? His attractiveness and talent for kissing means nothing. Absolutely nothing. The man’s a murderer.
Awareness cedes to icy fear. I swallow down the rising panic.
His warm, steady breath skates over my neck. The contrast with my own ragged huffs is stark. Cold metal touches my wrists, and then the zip ties give way with a snap. Blood rushes back into my hands in waves.
Where was he keeping that knife? What else is he hiding under that leather jacket?
He edges back, tracking my movements while I wince and rub at the raw skin of my wrists. Without another word, he marches out, pulling the door partially closed behind him.
I snatch up the washcloth the second he’s gone, scrubbing at my skin with desperate energy. The water pinkens as I wash away Benny’s blood. As steam rises from the running water, I rinse out the cloth and scrub my face. My legs. Every exposed piece of skin.
Before I’m even halfway done, my bladder informs me it’s been through a hell of a workout tonight and won’t wait a second longer.
I sit on the toilet and almost jump up again at the warmth coming from the seat.
Several buttons line the side. And a remote hangs from the wall.
The word Toto is elegantly engraved on the device.
Is this…a bidet? There’s a little dial for pressure. And even one for hot and cold.
I shove down the curiosity that’s rearing its ugly head. With everything I’ve survived tonight, I do not need to add using an ass washer for the first time to the list of strange occurrences. Nope. No ass washing for me.
Noises from outside the bathroom reach my ears.
My breathing starts to accelerate. My hands shake. In my utter terror, I hadn’t realized how cold I was.
Get it together, Aurora. Think.
First, I need off the damn toilet before Alexei comes back. Today’s quota for pain and humiliation has already been filled. For the next year.
Once I finish my business, I search the bathroom for weapons or escape routes. The window is tiny, barely big enough to fit my head through, let alone my hips. The fixtures are all built-in and impossible to remove without tools. There’s nothing to use as a weapon except maybe the hand towels.
Somehow, I don’t think attempting to strangle a man like Alexei with Egyptian cotton would be a wise move.
I catch my reflection in the mirror and barely recognize myself.
My hair is a tangled mess, my makeup smeared down my cheeks from countless tears.
The maid costume, which was degrading at the bar, feels obscene in this context.
I tug the outfit down as far as possible and smooth my hands over the wrinkles.
A pointless gesture, though one that gives me something to do with my trembling hands.
Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
Staying calm is critical.
Despite the bathroom’s size, I can’t hide out in here forever. And I’m afraid if I stay too long, Alexei will come and drag me out. Straightening my spine, I scrape my resolve off the floor, open the door, and return to the main space.
The blinds are closed now, cutting off the spectacular view and transforming the vast room into a lamplit cave. Shielding the view, or shielding us? Either way, the isolation seems more complete, more deliberate.
Alexei’s in the kitchen area, his back to me as he works at the counter.
Everything in the kitchen is high-end. Viking range, Sub-Zero refrigerator, marble countertops.
The kind of stuff I’d drool over in magazines during my lunch breaks.
The appliances are so incongruous with the man using them that I battle a strange urge to laugh.
What does a killer cook for dinner? Who does he entertain in this massive empty space?
Does he host a murderer’s book club? If so, I wonder if he and his friends can always guess who-did-it.
The distance between us grants me a minute to truly absorb my surroundings.
With the way every noise echoes, I know this place is bigger than I can currently see.
On the side opposite the windows, there’s a wall of gray, or maybe a cluster of thick shadows.
Considering my situation, I don’t want to know.
The elevator door remains open, implying that I would need his thumbprint in order to go to another floor. No obvious escape route.
Which leaves dealing with Alexei.
He knows I witnessed him shooting Benny, and his friends told him to get rid of me. He should have killed me by now.
So why hasn’t he?
What kind of answers does he want from me?
Clasping my hands together in front of me, I plaster on my warmest smile. “Your home is lovely. Really. But I should be going. It’s getting late. And if I don’t water my geraniums, they get cranky.”
He ignores me and treks back from the kitchen with a plate of food, two pain relief tablets, and a huge glass of water. I can’t figure out what’s on the plate from here, but a rich, tomato-y aroma reaches my nose.
My traitorous stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten in hours. “Oh, don’t listen to her. She’s just a greedy bitch. I’m not really hungry.”
He sets the food on a low coffee table in front of a huge, poufy, smoke gray sectional. The type of couch that, under different circumstances, I’d sink into and never want to leave. The kind people cuddle on during movie nights or make love on during rainy afternoons.
Not the furniture I’d expect from a man who executes people in alleys.
He sits in a chair on the far side of the table. No, not a table. A slab of reclaimed timber set in dark black steel. A piece that probably costs more than three months of my rent.
I hover at the edge of the couch, uncertain. Is this a trap? Some kind of sick game before he kills me?
Joking isn’t working, so I switch to begging. What have I got to lose?
I recall the name his friends called him and hope using it might establish some kind of connection. A humanizing link between us. “Please let me go, Alexei.”
His eyes ice over, his body tensing like a predator about to strike.
My pulse gallops, and I inch back a step. Okay. No using his name as connection. Got it.
“Drink.” He gestures to the water and aspirin. His flat voice is so devoid of emotion that it cuts through my rambling like a knife. “You can eat once you answer my questions.”
I start to backpedal, a revised plan forming on the fly. Simple pleading with no attempt at false connection.
“Please. I won’t say anything. Benny was trying to kill you.
I saw it. Then he tried to kill me. You saved me.
What you did was self-defense and…you protected me.
If anyone asks, we can say Benny attacked us both and we had to seek medical attention immediately.
It makes total sense. Honestly, if you think about it, you’re practically a hero. Please. I swear. I—”
He waves the gun that suddenly appears in his hand at the water, then at me. “If you can’t follow simple commands, there’s no point in keeping you alive.”
I halt mid-step, my eyes locked on the barrel. The one that put a bullet through Benny’s skull and could end my life with a simple squeeze of his finger.
I’ll be lucky to survive the next five minutes, much less the night.