Chapter 11
Jordan
When he slams the door, the window shudders. The echo vibrates through air still thick with tension.
I stay on the floor, my legs useless, my heart hammering wildly enough to crack my ribs. My body pulses with aftershocks, little electric currents zipping through nerves that should be dead, not singing.
The betrayal of my flesh burns hotter than shame.
What have I done? What have I let him do?
Worse, I begged for his touch, wordless and desperate against his hand.
I press my palm to my mouth, trapping the sob that tries to escape. My skin reeks of Kirill. That cold metal scent mingles with a darker, muskier one. My thighs are slick with the evidence of my surrender.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the darkness only worsens the shame. I see his face, feel his fingers inside me, hear the rough catch in his breath when I came apart.
“Stop it. Stop it stop it stop it.”
But my treacherous body refuses to listen.
My muscles hum with satisfaction, with completion. The sweet release after years of nothing, of emptiness packaged as spiritual fulfillment. My skin’s too sensitive, my nerves a live wire seeking connection.
I push myself up, wobbling like a newborn colt, frantic to get away from the wall where he pinned me. Where I let him claim me.
Wanted him to.
The room blurs as I pace, my arms hugging my middle as if I could physically hold myself together despite everything inside threatening to split wide open. One-two-three turn, one-two-three turn… I mark out the borders of my cell with frantic steps.
My breath comes fast and shallow. I’m hyperventilating. The edges of my vision darken, but I can’t slow down.
“Breathe in abundance. Breathe out fear.” The mantra slips from my lips, habitual but hollow.
There’s no abundance here. Just the shark I’m locked away with, who touched me with such violent tenderness, I dissolved.
That’s what terrifies me most.
Not him. Not what he could do to me.
But what I did. How I responded by arching into his touch and moaning his name like a prayer. I clutched at him with needy hands when I should have fought and bolted.
I should hate him. Fear him.
After the alley, after the blood and the bodies, after the threats to Ashley. He should repulse me. And he did. He does.
But that’s not all.
I stop and dig my fingers into the edge of the desk. The truth rises like bile, impossible to gulp back down.
The first time he kissed me, I conjured excuses.
A shock response. Chemical misfiring. My body, touch-starved and neglected for so long, would probably react to any contact at all.
But this time was different.
I knew exactly what he was. What he’s capable of.
Despite what he’s shown me, the frozen, hurting boy beneath the killer’s mask lured me in.
Despite the blood on his hands. The casual violence. The cold calculation.
I wanted him anyway.
I wanted him to consume me. I wanted to fall into that beautiful, terrifying void I’d glimpsed in his eyes. I wanted him to fill me with his fire and intensity. His danger.
This isn’t just attraction. It isn’t just misplaced Stockholm syndrome or adrenaline or fear twisted into lust. This is darker and more profound.
I’ve spent my entire life trying to avoid this.
The kind of passion my father chased right into his grave.
The intensity my mother fled from in favor of burying herself in sterile wealth and rigid control.
The messy chaos I attempted to bypass by finding truth in ancient practices, hiding behind crystals and manifestation journals, and recalibrating the world through spiritual platitudes.
Kirill threatens every carefully constructed barrier I’ve built. He contains more raw energy in his little finger than I’ve managed to manifest with years of effort. He’s a menacing criminal capable of terrible things. And so intensely magnetic.
I’ve got to get out of here.
Jordan
I watch, listen, and learn the rhythm of Kirill. Reconcile what I’ve seen over the past few days.
He moves through the house like he’s in familiar territory, his steps measured and certain. But even sharks have patterns. Predators follow routines.
At exactly eight every night, shortly after he brings me dinner, someone calls his phone.
Right before that, he heads to his room. Then the ringtone slices through the silence. After that, he spends at least fifteen minutes talking in private.
And tonight, I’ll use that predictability against him.
I’ve counted time by the shift of light across the floor.
Five days in captivity.
Just one since he pinned me against the wall, his mouth claimed mine, and his hands…
I push the memory aside.
That moment of connection changes nothing. I’m still a prisoner. Ashley’s still in danger. And I still need to get out.
My plan is ready to go. I watch the sunset. Then I wait.
The bathroom wastebasket sits upturned in the center of the floor. The steak knife, a hairpin I found lodged in the plush rug, and the soft scarf that came with the clothes he provided stay snug in my waistband. Not much. But maybe enough.
I sit cross-legged on the floor, arranging my “sacred space.” Positioning the trash can directly in front of me, with the metal bottom facing up, I breathe deeply.
I need Kirill to pay attention.
“Ohmmm.” I work my throat, humming deep and resonant, keeping beat on the metal bottom of the trash can with the handle of the knife. The hollow and surprisingly loud gong bounces off the walls. “Cleanse this space! Purify this energy!”
I bang harder and faster to establish a deliberately jarring and asymmetrical rhythm. “The cycle of the moon demands release! I call upon the cosmic forces to realign my vibrational frequency!”
I’m shouting nonsense, but I’m praying for real. I’m asking for guidance. I’m open to opportunities, to chances, to fate’s red string. Please lead me to where I need to go.
More drumming. I add volume and hold the waste basket drum under one arm while beating with the other, dancing around the room half in meditation circle, half in tantrum. “The stagnant energies must be expelled! The spiritual matrix requires calibration!”
I hear shuffling outside my door. Quick, irritated footsteps.
Throwing my head back, I project my voice. “All negative entities must depart! I banish thee from my auric field!”
Is auric even a word? If I don’t know, he sure doesn’t.
Please let this work.
The door flies open.
Kirill bursts in, his phone already in hand, his face a perfect mask of controlled fury. I catch the faint sound of his ringtone.
Right on schedule.
“What the hell are you doing?” His steel-sharp voice cuts through my chanting.
I don’t break character or stop drumming. This is way more important than any live video I’ve ever done. “It’s a vital night for soul seekers. And the energy in this room is stagnant. I must clear it before it attaches to my spiritual matrix. My vibrational frequency is messed up and—”
He closes his eyes for a second, his jaw clenched as his phone continues to ring.
In one fluid motion, he crosses the room, grabs my arm, and pulls me into the hallway. I let him drag me, stumbling just enough to appear compliant but ineffectual.
He marches me down the corridor toward a small bathroom I’ve glimpsed on my rare trips to the kitchen.
“Stay here. Be quiet.” His voice leaves no room for negotiation as he shoves me inside.
The door closes, and I hear the lock engage.
A simple bathroom lock, not the heavy dead bolt that confines me to my bedroom.
I press my ear to the door, listening to his retreating footsteps.
His voice, low and controlled, answers the phone in Russian as he moves farther away.
I count to sixty to ensure he’s settled into his call before I act.
With shaky fingers, I extract the bobby pin. My knowledge comes entirely from TV shows and that one weird phase when Ashley dated a locksmith a few years ago. But desperation is a powerful teacher.
I slide the pin into the lock, feeling for the mechanism inside. My hands tremble so badly at first that the metal scrapes against the keyhole, triggering a sound that seems thunderous in the silent house. I freeze, waiting for Kirill’s return.
Nothing.
Just the faint murmur of his voice from a distant room.
I try again, wrapping my hand around the knob as a kind of muffler.
I focus on the feel of metal against metal. The tiny clicks and catches.
Sweat beads on my forehead and drips down my back. My breath comes in shallow gasps that I force myself to control. Breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth. Stay centered. Stay present.
The lock finally gives a little.
I apply pressure, twisting the pin with quivering fingers, and feel another movement. Then a shift.
The lock disengages.
I pause, listening.
Kirill’s steady, unalarmed voice continues.
I ease the door open, wincing at the slightest creak of hinges. The dim, empty hallway stretches before me. I sneak out, careful to walk along the sides, close to the wall where the floor’s less likely to creak.
Through the living room and past the kitchen. Every step a potential betrayal, every heartbeat a countdown. I slide along the rooms, halting at corners to listen. Kirill’s voice grows fainter as I put more distance between us. He must be in the office at the back of the house.
I force myself to walk slowly. If I run, I might trip, and if I trip, he’s going to hear me fall.
I will not squander this chance.
After so long, I finally glimpse freedom in the form of an unfortunately heavy and imposing front door with multiple locks.
Three levers and one knob stand in the way of liberty.
Pressing my body against the thick wood, I turn the locks, one after the other. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out all other noise.
If Kirill finds me now…
The image of those men on the ground flashes behind my eyes, but I shove the memory aside as the last lock clicks out of place.
Carefully, I crack the door open just wide enough to slip through.
Cool evening air kisses my face, whispering promises of distance and safety. Without glancing back, I slip through the opening and pull the door closed behind me.
I venture into the night, barefoot and terrified, but finally, gloriously free.