Chapter 21
Aurora
A soft object presses against my face, smothering me. I thrash against the weight, heart thundering as I claw my way up from the depths of unconsciousness. My hands connect with thick fabric that I shove away with a strangled gasp.
A pillow. Just a pillow.
Not hands. Not a gag. My lungs expand painfully as I gulp down air, the remnants of terror still coursing through my veins. Grandma’s necklace, pooled on the sheet next to me, reminds me of reality.
A startled meow chimes near my ear as something warm and furry scampers across my chest.
Pixie. Her orange blur disappears over the edge of the bed.
She must have knocked the pillow over on me. Possibly on purpose so I’d get up and feed her. Wouldn’t be the first time.
After my breakdown last night, I slept like the dead.
I fling myself upright, tangled sheets anchoring my legs like restraints. I realize that, in all the chaos, I neglected to set out food, water, or a litter box after Pixie and I were reunited. Sniffing the air, I pray my cat didn’t decide to use the bed or my clothes when she had no other options.
Everything else rushes back in an avalanche of jagged memories. The alley. Benny’s execution. My kidnapping. My escape. My ransacked apartment. Gio’s threat against Samantha. The shoot-out. My second abduction. Alexei’s mouth on mine. My shameful response. His rejection.
Too much.
It’s all too much.
My chest constricts as my breathing accelerates into shallow gasps that fail to deliver enough oxygen to my brain. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision. I’m hyperventilating. Drowning in air.
Instinct drives me forward, off the bed, and across the room to the wall of curtains. I reach for heavy fabric, yanking the drapes open with more force than necessary. Bright sunlight pours in.
Chicago sprawls below, a miniature toy city from this height.
Cars crawl along like insects in lines. People move like darting dots between towering structures.
Life continues as if my world hasn’t been shattered.
As if I’m not trapped in this glass, steel, and brick fortress with a murderer who kisses like he’s starving and I’m his last meal.
I press my forehead against the cool glass, allowing the contrast in temperature to ground me. My breath fogs the window. With each exhale, each inhale, the small cloud expands and contracts.
In. Out. In. Out.
Until my lungs remember their rhythm, the black spots recede, and I can think past the panic.
Second abduction.
The words echo in my mind, absurd in their redundancy. Who gets kidnapped twice in as many days? Me, apparently. Aurora Bailey, professional victim. If there were an award for most spectacular life implosion, I’d be giving the acceptance speech right now.
I’d like to thank my complete lack of self-preservation instincts and my terrible timing for this honor. But I’m most grateful for my horrendous taste in men, which I can always depend on.
A wild laugh bubbles up my throat but dies before it reaches my lips. Because beneath the absurdity, beneath the fear and the confusion and the unwanted desire, there’s that solid certainty that I’m alive.
I’m still breathing. Still fighting. Still me, underneath it all.
Sometimes that’s all a girl can do. Survive. One breath at a time. One second at a time.
The metallic snick of the door handle roots me in place. My body goes rigid, caught between the instinct to flee and the knowledge that there’s nowhere to go. The door swings inward with deliberate slowness.
Alexei hovers in the doorframe, his broad shoulders nearly touching both sides. The sight of him both arouses and terrifies me.
He’s dressed in dark jeans and a white t-shirt that stretches across his chest and highlights the muscles beneath. Must be his signature outfit. His damp hair curls slightly at the temples.
I scramble backward, bare feet silent against the plush carpet, until I hit the window. The glass chills me through the thin fabric of his shirt. My t-shirt now. My heart leaps into my throat as his eyes rove over me.
What does he want?
What’s he going to make me do today?
“Come.” The faintest twitch of his mouth interrupts his inscrutable expression. “Time for breakfast.”
He exits the room without waiting for my response, no doubt assuming I’ll follow. As if his word is law.
Ass.
After remaining motionless for a good minute, I do heed his command. Not because he ordered me to, but because I’m starving. And I need to know what’s happening. And hanging out alone in this gray room will drive me insane faster than facing him will.
Most of all, I’m afraid Pixie will piss in my shoes if I don’t set up the litter box.
Daylight transforms the main room of the loft, softening the vast space with a golden glow. The city gleams beyond the wall of windows, a perfect backdrop for the scene that greets me.
Alexei sits in a large swivel chair before an array of monitors, his back to the spectacular view. The screens cast blue-white light across his features, emphasizing the sharp angles of his face and the intensity of his focus.
Stacks of papers, a leather-bound notebook, and a tablet sit on a table beside him. The scholar at work. The predator at rest. Studying. Planning. Waiting.
For what, I have no idea.
I glance to where he tossed the cat supplies yesterday and find the litter box already set up on a rug next to the elevator. Turning to the kitchen, I discover two bowls on the floor at the end of the counter.
He’s already taken care of everything Pixie needs.
As if on cue, she races up to the box and climbs in, sniffing to ensure cleanliness. Then she squats and stares into the distance as she does her business.
My eyes slide to the broken window, where a plastic sheet ripples in the climate-controlled air.
I did that. Tore that hole in his perfect fortress with my bare hands.
A small yet fierce sensation flutters in my chest, a reminder that I fought back and escaped, even if only for a while. That I’m not as helpless as I feel.
Alexei’s gaze traces mine, his eyes narrowing. “That was an expensive window.”
“Good.” The word pops out, sharp and quick. The surprise flickering across his face mirrors my own.
Yesterday, I might have apologized. Cowered. Today, I don’t give a shit about his expensive window.
I turn away from him, my attention caught by what’s on the kitchen counter.
He wasn’t kidding about food. I find platters of sliced fruit arranged in colorful patterns, stacks of pancakes with steam still rising from the golden circles, bacon curled in crispy perfection, mounds of fluffy scrambled eggs, and a basket of pastries that would drive even a French baker to jealousy.
The spread is an absurd, extravagant display of…what? Wealth? Control? Apology?
Despite the hollow ache in my stomach, I approach cautiously. When was the last time I ate? Breakfast yesterday? I don’t even remember.
Is this his style? Punish me, then feed me, then punish me some more? At least he’s granting me a small reprieve from whatever this day has in store.
Okay, then. I’ll make the best of this fucked up, terrifying situation.
A strange, reckless energy blossoms inside me, effervescent and unstable. Though plenty of fear remains, an essential part of myself I thought I lost returns.
I almost feel…normal.
Which is ridiculous, given that nothing about this situation is normal. Maybe I’m just adjusting to my new reality as an abductee. How many stages of kidnapping grief are there?
Denial, anger, bargaining, depression…all eventually leading to the acceptance of absurd normalcy?
I have no clue, but if I have to be a prisoner, I’ll be the most annoying, talkative, pain-in-the-ass prisoner Alexei’s ever had.
With an exaggerated stretch, I meander into the kitchen. My bare feet are silent on the concrete floor, but I know he’s tracking my movement. Though he doesn’t turn, I can feel his attention shift.
Ignoring the mouthwatering feast on the counter, I open his fridge and peer inside with theatrical interest. A loaf of bread, a lime, and rows of bottled water. Just like yesterday. The most depressing fridge I’ve ever seen.
In the door, there’s a packet of butter, like the kind a cozy little diner would have mixed in with a bowl full of jellies.
After pulling out the bread, I find a toaster and pop in two slices.
The domestic sounds—the click of the toaster lever, the hum as it heats—chime like acts of rebellion in the sterile silence of the loft.
I hunt through drawers and cabinets until I locate a knife and a plate.
The metal and ceramic clink together as I set them down with more force than necessary.
“So, did you sleep well?” I peer at Alexei’s unmoving back. “I slept like a rock. You know, for a kidnapping victim. Clearly the key is total emotional exhaustion.”
He doesn’t respond. His fingers keep flying across his keyboard, typing letters I can’t see from this distance.
“That’s quite a spread.” I gesture with my knife toward the table, though he still doesn’t bother to glance at me. “Almost as good as the buffet at Pancake Lodge. But,” I pat my stomach, “none for me. I’m all full on heartburn and panic.”
The toaster pops. I butter the bread with deliberate slowness, raking the knife across the surface with vicious scrapes I hope grate on his every last nerve. The sudden tension in his shoulders elates me.
I’ve finally cracked that armor of indifference.
I bring my plate over, not to the counter with its lavish display, but to the edge of his command center. He’s still staring at the screens, maps, lines of code, and grainy security footage. Never at the city outside the window. Never at me.
I take a loud, crunchy bite of toast and don’t bother with closing my mouth. “So,” crumbs spray from my mouth, “what’s with all the screens? You a day trader? Or is it crypto? I hear you need to be careful with that.”
He cranes his neck like a predator sensing movement in the underbrush. His blue eyes are dark and exhausted, the shadows beneath them more pronounced than yesterday. He probably stayed up all night working on whatever this is. Hunting. Planning.
Cold awareness slithers down my spine.
“You didn’t sleep well, did you?” I inject fake concern into my voice. “Do you think it’s your conscience?”
“You going to keep talking?” His voice is a raspy growl.
I give him a brilliant, brittle smile, all teeth and defiance. “Oh, I’m just getting started.”
His calculating gaze lingers on my face. The assessment strips me bare, like he’s tunneled through my forced cheer to find the fear churning beneath. But I don’t shy away or let my smile slip. I refuse to give the bastard the satisfaction of knowing how much he still terrifies me.
His expression morphs into some complex mixture of approval and irritation. Like I’m a puzzle he didn’t expect to be interesting. Or a toy that suddenly started talking back.
The smile stays plastered on my face, though my muscles ache with the effort. I’m not his puzzle or his toy. Just his temporary prisoner. I won’t let him witness me breaking again. And I sure as hell won’t let him see past this armor of annoying chatter I’ve constructed.
If silence is his weapon, then words are mine. And I have plenty more.