Chapter 15
Jordan
There’s a lock on the inside of my new bedroom door. A real one, not the flimsy kind you can jimmy with a bobby pin, but a metal bolt that slides into place with certainty.
The brass shines against the warped, peeling wood. A surprising bit of glitter sparkles in the light as I test the dead bolt once, twice, three times, my fingertips skimming over its edges like it’s a rare piece of pottery rather than simple hardware.
Kirill kept me in a room for five days. Now I’m the one controlling the lock.
This is a small miracle. Privacy with a bite.
I’m still a prisoner. And I don’t believe for a hot second this lock would stop Kirill if he truly wanted to get into this room. But the symbolism relieves me. It’s like throwing your bra off after you get home.
I may not have freedom, but at least I have a semblance of privacy.
This safe house is a little louder and rougher than the last one. Here, every board and nail has a complaint or secret. The bed is narrower, the sheets cheap and scratchy, the entire room faded at the seams. Where the last place boasted quiet wealth, this one conveys undisguised indigence.
But every time I turn the knob, the lock works. That’s what counts.
The full bed occupies most of the small room, surrounded by beige walls, old brown carpet, and peeling paint on the crown molding.
An abrupt knock slams against my new lockable door. Three strikes that vibrate through the wood.
I cross the small bedroom floor, measuring each step and taking my sweet time.
By the time I open the door, Kirill looks like he’s one heartbeat away from smashing through the wood. The thought causes my chest to ache with a strange blend of dread and a fear I won’t name.
What if he’s hurt Ashley? I haven’t even thought about her since I got free, ran, and he caught me again.
I’m a horrible friend.
He doesn’t talk, just thrusts out two long, white, expensive boxes.
For a beat, I just hold them, my arms dipping beneath their unexpected heft.
He leaves before I can speak, the door sealing with a crisp, verdict-like click.
Then it inches open again. The aged jamb bows, demonstrating that the door won’t stay closed if the lock’s not engaged.
But the lock works.
I clutch the boxes against my chest and stagger to the bed. With a muffled thud, their weight settles on the green comforter.
My fingers hesitate over the first box. I know what’s inside. Clothes, like he promised. Dresses he’s selected and insists I wear to the conference.
Wearing these means surrender.
But how bad can that be compared to everything else?
With a shake of my head, I pull off the first lid to find sleek gloves and a black silk dress.
Not just black, but a midnight so dense, the fabric bleeds shadows onto my hands. When I tug the dress free, it spills over my wrists in a whisper of soft cloud, pooling into a sheath sharp enough to cut.
Expensive. Deliberate.
The kind of dress I haven’t worn since I was a teenager at my mother and stepfather’s parties.
I peel the tissue on the second, and it’s like touching an electric fence. Red. Not the shade of lipstick or roses or anything safe. This is the color of an open wound. Raw and impossible to ignore.
Ugly and beautiful.
A warning and a weapon.
I hold up the high-necked black dress, sliding my fingers down the precise seams, the edge of every line. The fabric is neither rough nor soft.
These aren’t gifts. They’re uniforms. A way to erase the loose layers and beads and earth-tone wraps that belong to Jordan Thorne, the wellness influencer and spiritual guide.
In these, I’m branded. An asset, not person. A doll to show off.
His, whether I want to be or not.
A chill crab-walks up my spine. I lay the dresses on the bed, side by side. Black. Red. Colors that say exactly what they mean.
My hands tremble, and not just from fear, but from a dangerous curiosity about what happens if I just put one on.
Who will I become?
I pick up the red dress and hold the shape against me. Its neckline is high, like that of the black gown, to cover the healing cut on my throat, the sleeves long, every line strict and certain. The hem falls past my knees. Not a scrap of skin exposed that doesn’t need to be.
It’ll hide every mark left from the car crash, every scrape, every bruise from Kirill’s rescue and those men’s hands. No one would know what I went through. Not even me, if I looked in a mirror.
He didn’t just guess my size. He knows it. Exactly.
A deep, cold weight settles in the pit of my stomach.
He’s been watching me. Not just paying attention to my words, but also to how I move. Who I am, right down to the inches between my shoulders, the curve of my hips, the shape of my body.
I am his focus. Only me.
Goosebumps race over my skin. I suck in a breath, my brain fuzzy. The knowledge of those icy eyes staring me down, observing me—and only me—for who knows how long, sends an arc of lust oozing through my stomach.
I drop the dress, which hits the bedspread and pools out like blood. I gape, my heartbeat wild.
Am I going to do this?
For reasons I can’t name, I peel off my borrowed clothes and let them fall. I face the closet’s sliding, mirrored door and spot the naked map of bruises and scrapes. The butterfly bandage glares on my neck.
All the evidence of my week of struggles, painted in blues and purples, with stripes of angry crimson.
I pull the red dress over my head. The cold silk slides down over all the rawness, all the proof, smoothing the marks away. The fabric settles, weighted and perfect. Not too tight or too loose.
Neat. Measured. Precise.
So not me.
I study myself in the mirror. A woman I don’t recognize squints back.
She’s sleek. Dangerous. She belongs where people never use their real names. Not Jordan the spiritual guide, not the girl who ran through the park barefoot because she couldn’t find any other way.
This woman is polished. Composed. Every edge sharp, every feeling locked down tight.
She fits at Kirill’s side. She’s not out of place at a gala or at a sentencing.
The thought terrifies me. But a flicker of power—of potential—stirs beneath that terror, much like stepping into armor.
I don’t know myself.
Maybe that’s the point.
My bedroom door’s not quite latched. An inch of gap reveals an empty line of the hallway. A sharp, silent invitation.
I stare, motionless, torn between two nearly equal urges.
To pull the door tight, lock it, and wall myself off from what waits beyond. Or to step out and see what happens next.
Out there lies the rest of the house, including Kirill and everything tangled up with him.
I ought to close myself in and wait for tomorrow’s conference.
But that thread of light has me leaning forward despite myself. Toward a world of unseen possibilities.
With careful fingertips, I push the door open. The hallway stretches away, void, and silence greets me.
No running water or footsteps. Just the low hum of the fridge and the tick of some distant clock.
I slip into the hall, my bare feet silent on the threadbare carpet. The silk of the dress skims my skin and whispers when I move, simultaneously loud and soft. I follow the faint puddle of light that draws me deeper into the house.
Inside my chest, my heart hammers. Fear, yes, but more than that. Curiosity?
Curiosity. Sure. That’s what this is.
I’m not brave enough to name the impulse that drives me out of my privacy while donning the red silk dress.
And I’m not strong enough to resist.
At the end of the hall, the living room waits. Everything in this house is pared down to necessity. The couch, chair, and coffee table are all hard lines, black and gray, steel and leather. A room meant for use, not pleasure.
An unmoving Kirill sits on the low couch.
He doesn’t look up, but he knows I’m here. That knowledge lives in his shoulders and the hold of his breath. His focus stays on the gun spread out on the round, wooden coffee table before him, each metal piece neatly arranged on a square of white cloth.
He works with his hands—methodical, precise—as he silently oils and wipes and fits the parts together.
The ritualistic way he cleans his gun steals the air from my lungs, as does his absolute attention on every step.
His hands are big and rough, yet they move with this strange, gentle accuracy as they slot tiny, lethal pieces into a deadly puzzle.
It’s so completely him. The carefulness. The certainty. The threat simmering beneath his control.
Those same hands murdered men today. And touched me two days ago. Drove me mad, pushed me over the edge…
“Come here.” Though not a suggestion—Kirill never suggests—his voice is soft, almost tender.
My body obeys before my mind can catch up, my feet carrying me across the room to the edge of the sofa. We’re close enough that I feel his heat, but I don’t touch. Not yet.
He doesn’t look at me. Just fits the oiled metal home with a faint, final click that lingers in the stillness. “The dress fits.”
Not praise. Not even a question. A fact, data logged and acknowledged. Somehow, he knows the dress is my size without looking up at me. Though, considering his acute attention to detail, I’m not surprised. A little irritated at the presumptuous bastard? Sure.
But even so, his words slide under my skin and heat blooms along my neck and cheeks.
“It’s so…intense.” What I don’t say sits heavy beneath the surface. Like you. The dress is an extension of him. His severe and dangerous mark on me.
He finally glances away from the gun. His winter-cold, pale blue eyes track me from the floor to my face. Taking his sweet time, he regards my bare feet, his stare skating all the way up my body. When he meets my eyes, the stare is physical and possessive, like he’s counting inventory.
A sharp but not unwelcome shiver ripples through me. After all, he won. I’m in his colors, wearing what he picked, and standing where he told me to.
All his.